Idgen Marte’s voice sounded in Allystaire’s head. Want me to make an end of this? Plenty of shadow less than two steps from him.
No. Let them resolve it if they can.
“Donals Brinden, lord of throat cutters n’cowards,” Harrys said suddenly. “Would ya accept a blade and the circle w’me?”
Donals actually laughed. “They’ll never let me have a sword, and if they did it’d only mean your death, you doting fool. I’m twice the swordsman you are.”
“There will be no trial by combat,” Chaddin said, and Landen echoed him with a resounding, “No.”
Harrys shrugged, his eyes never leaving Brinden’s. “Then let ‘im kill me before he dies. Take one more to the Cold w’him.”
“Oh no,” Donals shouted. “If I defeat the peasant, I leave, freely.”
Landen and Chaddin shared a look, with Chaddin starting to shake his head, until Landen seized the moment.
“You will get no horse, no supplies. You get your feet, and the winter will kill you,” she said. “That is the only offer you’ll have.”
“Fine,” Donals yelled. “Everyone but the peasant back away. Bring me a blade. A decent one, a knight’s weapon.”
Harrys finally lowered his falchion, but didn’t sheath it, keeping it instead at a low guard with his left hand wrapped around his right wrist. Allystaire looked to Norbert and nodded slightly; the boy relaxed his string but kept the arrow nocked. Landen walked a few steps forward, turned her sword point down and stuck it into the ground, then backed away, saying, “Let the man go.”
Donals did indeed let the man go, and Allystaire realized just a moment too late what he meant to do. The knight gave the man a shove towards Harrys, whose bare sword pointed straight at him.
Meanwhile, Donals dove for Landen’s sword and snatched it from the ground, bringing it up in both hands, smiling grimly.
Harrys had two choices, as Allystaire saw it while the moment slowly unfolded before him; he could impale the hapless man hurtling towards him, or twist, try to absorb the blow, and likely be knocked off his feet.
The old soldier chose the latter, stumbled to the ground on his side and rolled away on one shoulder.
Sir Donals Brinden came on in a furious rush, but instead of raising his borrowed sword high for a dramatic killing stroke, he kept it low and aimed to drive it straight into Harrys’s body from an angle the grounded soldier couldn’t counter.
Harrys didn’t try to move. Instead, he hurled a handful of wet snow at Brinden’s face and rolled to a side, then pushed himself up by levering on an elbow. The snow distracted the knight enough that instead of planting firmly in Harrys’s midsection, the sword just barely swept across his back as it was turned.
Harrys cried out, but finished rising to his feet anyway, holding his falchion out in a guard.
Brinden came on, trying a sweeping cut.
Harrys managed to knock it aside, and then another, and a third, swinging with both arms to push Brinden back and gain space.
It was clear to Allystaire that Sir Donals Brinden hadn’t been lying when he’d claimed to be a better swordsman, and it was apparent to everyone there. Harrys couldn’t counterattack; it was all he could do, one after another, to block the cuts and thrusts that Brinden sent at him, backing up and giving ground all the while. The length of his weapon didn’t help, as the blade the knight wielded had half a span more of length than the old soldier’s falchion.
“I can shoot him clean,” Norbert muttered.
“Shooting a man in the back is not how we work,” Allystaire replied.
Meanwhile, Harrys had thrown Brinden back with another over-exertion, then given up his two handed grip to draw the axe from the other side of his belt with his left hand, backing up yet another step, shuffling to the side, trying to present a smaller target, showing his profile to Donals, with axe and sword held low at his side, breath heaving in his chest.
“You’ve no idea how to fight a knight on his own terms, peasant,” Donals proclaimed, his voice untroubled, rich with arrogance. “Is this the kind of man you’d elevate above me, my lady?” Though he didn’t look at Landen, but there was no mistaking the insult in his tone.
“You talkin’ or dyin’?” Harrys, by contrast, sounded like a man more than half done in, his voice hoarse, words raw.
Donals lunged forward. Harrys tried to spin away, but the tip of the sword drew a line down his left arm. Not a deep cut, but a painful one that would slow his axe-hand. The old soldier’s grimace deepened; otherwise he gave no sign.
“I’m going to cut you apart slowly, peasant,” Donals said, gloating again.
Harrys growled and waved his axe, beckoning the knight forward.
Donals obliged, lunging again. Harrys took a half step to his right, bringing the axe up to parry. Allystaire grasped almost instantly what the old soldier intended.
The horseman’s axe he carried had a hooked balancing point. With a flick of his wrist, Harrys trapped the first few inches of Donals’ point with it, allowing him to tug the man forward.
Since Brinden still had some command of his blade, and presence of mind, he was able to slow himself from moving forward, and tug his blade so that, trapped by the hook or not, its edge dug into Harry’s arm again, more deeply this time.
It availed him little when Harrys pivoted, allowing the blade to gash his arm, and planted the first half span of his broad-bladed falchion straight through Sir Donals Brinden’s breastbone.
The old soldier stepped back, bleeding freely from his arm, axe falling from nerveless fingers. Brinden fell to his knees as bloody froth bubbled up around his mouth, streaming off into his red beard. He looked up at the soldier with stunned, uncomprehending eyes.
“Call me peasant again, dead man,” Harrys muttered. Then he planted his booted foot in the knight’s chest and ripped his falchion free. He let the body slump to the ground.
“Remember what I told you,” Allystaire muttered to Norbert, as he moved towards Harrys, who paled as he cradled his wounded arm. “It is not the skill of the sword hand alone that matters.”
“It’s who’s willin’ to bear the most pain,” Norbert finished, slipping his arrow back into its sheaf.
* * *
Despite Harrys’s grumbling, he’d accepted Allystaire’s healing in the immediate aftermath of the impromptu duel. Now, half a turn later, with something resembling a court set up inside the Delondeur tent, Chaddin stared hard at the second knight, Sir Mathis Averyn, who stood pale and watery-eyed, hands and legs hobbled with rope, in the center of the tent. Guards flanked him, with Chaddin and Landen seated on stools behind borrowed camp tables at the back of the tent.
Allystaire, Norbert, Gideon, and Harrys lingered near the drawn-back flaps, basking in both the light and the cold allowed in. The old soldier had calmed some since he’d won the duel, and kept flexing his left arm, running his fingers inside his sleeve.
“Sir Mathis Averyn,” Chaddin said, with careful, almost hesitant solemnity. “You stand accused of conspiracy against your Baroness and her appointed officers. What have you to say?”
It took Sir Averyn a moment to gather himself to reply, but when he did his voice was clear. “Who accuses me?”
“Bannerman Ejilson,” Chaddin said. “Come forward.”
Muttering words under his breath that Allystaire didn’t have to listen hard to guess at, the soldier stumped up to stand next to the bound Sir Mathis.
“Bannerman Ejilson,” Chaddin continued, “please tell us what you know of the conspiracy.”
“Dunno that I’d call it that,” Harrys answered. “Seems more like just a pair of frighted idiots.”
“Please tell us what you heard,” Chaddin said, trying and failing to hide a grin, “without any opinion.”
“Fine,” Harrys said. “Mathis and Brinden come to me one night spent outside
the Temple. Few days after ya’d done yer proclamating on magistrates and such, m’lady,” he said, nodding at Landen. “Said they knew I understood how things ought t’be done. Knew how ‘twas important t’keep our traditions. Told me it was foolish t’try n’elevate peasants above their proper born masters.”
“He lies,” Avery said haughtily, tilting his head. “And as a baseborn man, good soldier or not, his words cannot be used as evidence against one of noble blood.”
“As to your latter complaint, Sir Mathis, yes they can,” Chaddin replied coldly. “As to the former, we have with us a man who can determine that. Sir Stillbright, would you consent?”
“Aye, Lord Magistrate, I will,” Allystaire boomed. “Yet I would make it plain that my part in this is merely as an aid to determining the truth. My presence does not imply the approval of my Goddess or Her Temple on any verdict reached or sentence meted out.”
Allystaire walked a few paces forward and placed his hand on the back of Harrys’s neck. Having healed the man twice already, it was no effort at all to establish that bridging connection between his senses and the other man. Harrys was anxious; his knees and lower back ached. He wanted this to be over and was uncertain of what lay beyond it.
“Please repeat your story, Bannerman Ejilson,” Chaddin said. “In brief.”
“Avery and Brinden came to me n’told me that I understood how things ought t’be, was a good soldier and knowed you needed killin’,” he said, pointing to Chaddin. “N’that maybe tha Baroness could b’made t’see sense once we left but till then, it’d be best t’ make sure he wasn’t sayin’ much. They may’ve suggested we needed t’kill Stillbright too, if we had the chance. Remember the Old Baron proper was what Donals said.”
Allystaire looked to Chaddin, who nodded. Allystaire dropped his hand and took half a step back.
“How do you answer the charges, Sir Mathis Averyn?” Chaddin folded his arms across his chest.
“Lies,” he began, in outrage.
“Sir Stillbright, would you please?”
Allystaire placed his hand on the back of Mathis’s neck as calmly and gently as he had Harrys’s. It took him a moment. Sir Mathis was afraid, edging on frantic. He was in pain from the ropes. Most of all, he was aggrieved at the injustice of it all.
“Sir Mathis Averyn,” Chaddin began, as Allystaire nodded, “did you plot with Sir Donals Brinden to murder me?”
“Yes.” Mathis suddenly started as the word popped out of his mouth, tried to pull himself free of Allystaire’s hand, failed.
“Did you attempt to recruit Bannerman Ejilson?”
“Yes.”
Chaddin leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“Good soldier. Knows his place. Won’t question.”
Allystaire felt Harrys bristle nearby, took a half step to put himself between the man on trial and the witness.
“Why did you feel it necessary to conspire for my death, for Sir Stillbright’s, and possibly that of the Baroness Delondeur?”
“Can’t put bastards above better blooded men! Can’t have that kind of thinking.” Avery began to sweat profusely. Allystaire felt his palm getting slick on the back of the man’s neck. “As for Stillbright, you mean Coldbourne! Worst enemy Delondeur’s ever had. Killed the Baron! Girl’s not ready. Soft-headed, it’s clear. Come under Coldbourne’s influence.”
“How many other men had you tried to recruit?”
“Just Ejilson. Thought many of the yeomanry would fall into line behind him. Useful that way.” Sir Mathis’s breathing was growing ragged, each word harder to hear than the last.
“Would you have killed me, given the chance?”
“Yes,” Mathis practically hissed.
Allystaire dropped his hand away. Sir Mathis Averyn slumped down to one knee on the hard ground.
“If I compel him much more, he will pass out,” Allystaire said, “so long as he continues to resist. I suspect he will.”
“Lord Magistrate,” Landen said, “I would like to test Sir Stillbright’s compulsion, if you please.”
Chaddin looked to Allystaire, who shrugged. “If you wish, Baroness.” He crossed over to Landen’s side, extended his hand. Landen pushed aside her sleeve and took Allystaire’s forearm in a warrior’s embrace. “Attempt to say something that is not true.”
“Such as?”
“That you are really Parthalian of song and story. That you hail from the Concordat. That you have walked on water and kicked a mountain to dust. Whatever you wish.”
Landen opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Sweat beaded almost instantly on her face. Finally, she relaxed, and muttered, “I am Landen Delondeur, born in Londray.” She let go Allystaire’s hand, nodded absently, and said, “I am satisfied, Lord Magistrate.”
Chaddin nodded, and lifted a hand to point a finger at Mathis Averyn while Allystaire drifted back to the entrance of the tent.
“Sir Mathis Averyn, you are incontestably guilty of conspiring against your Baron and his appointed Magistrate. There is a new order of things, Sir Mathis. Men of station will have to accustom themselves to it. We will pause for a single turn while I contemplate your sentence. Take him away.”
Two of the guards dragged the nearly insensate Sir Mathis Averyn away, lifting his feet clear of the ground as they went.
“Please clear the tent,” Chaddin said. “I would confer with the Baroness.” Then he lifted his head and looked hopefully at Allystaire who sighed, but nodded. Norbert started to turn away, but Allystaire shook his head very slightly, and the youth stayed put.
“Harrys,” Allystaire said, catching the old soldier just as he was leaving the tent. “Do not leave yet. I would speak with you before you go.”
“S’at so? Sounded like an order, t’me.”
“It is not.” Then, after a pause and a heavy swallow. “Please.”
The old soldier shrugged and walked off.
Allystaire watched him leave and then took a few steps towards Chaddin, who’d lifted his head and turned to Landen.
“What would you have me do, Landen?”
The Baroness shook her head slowly. “I can’t answer that. You’re the Lord Magistrate. The sentence must come from you.”
“I feared you’d say that,” Chaddin muttered. Allystaire barely heard him, though, because he was taken aback by Landen’s response. Might this actually work? Might these be the right people to lead this place?
Allystaire pushed the thought away, because Chaddin was looking to him now. He held out a hand to forestall any questions.
“I cannot tell you what to do, Chaddin. I will not. I have no part in this except to help to see that the truth is told by all parties.”
“Based on the testimony of Bannerman Ejilson, and on Averyn’s own words, I have to condemn him, don’t I?”
Allystaire was silent; Landen looked on with pursed lips. Norbert shifted uncomfortably. For a moment, the only sound to be heard in the tent was the slight stir of its heavy cloth walls, the slight jingling creak of Norbert’s mail.
“I have killed men before,” Chaddin said. “In battle, or keeping the peace. I have never ordered a man’s death. This is a different thing.”
“Aye,” Allystaire replied. “And it speaks well of you that it weighs on you.”
“You’ve done it before, haven’t you? Ordered a man’s death for a crime.”
Allystaire nodded. “I have.”
“Tell me of one.”
Allystaire shook his head. “No. I will not let the man I was be your example. It is a hard thing thrust upon you, Chaddin. Face it directly.”
“Have I any options? Repentance?” Chaddin’s eyes lit. “Doesn’t your priestess have some ritual?” He came half out of his chair, his face hopeful.
Deep lines sprung up across Allystaire’s forehead. “She does,” he said. “But poli
tical crimes like treason are not among those she would forgive, I think, for they are not the kind of crimes the Mother proscribes.”
“She would forgive a murderer or a rapist but not a traitor?” Disbelief soured Landen’s usually smooth voice.
“You do not understand,” Allystaire said, shaking his head. “The structures of this world such as Baronial lines, lordship, they are meaningless to Her, and to Mol, when it comes to this. If Mathis had murdered you, Chaddin, that would be a crime of interest to us, something I can punish and speak out against.”
“He planned to do it,” Chaddin said. “Is that not enough?”
“It is not that he planned it,” Gideon said, breaking his long silence. He’d been standing so still that it seemed half the people in the tent had forgotten he was there. Suddenly all eyes were on him. “It is that he intended to kill you and to take the Baroness in hand because he wished to maintain his power over the people whose exploitation makes his privilege possible.”
The words rolled over them all, leaving a stunned silence in their wake.
“Try again, in plainer language please, Gideon,” Allystaire said, though he smiled.
“It is not a question of what he planned to do but why he planned to do it,” Gideon said quickly. “He saw, to make this metaphorical, a weapon in the hands of the people he oppresses. And it was pointed at him.”
“The new court is not meant to be a weapon held to the throats of my liegemen,” Landen protested.
“In his eyes, and likely in many of the rest, it will be precisely that. Do not misunderstand me,” the boy added hastily. “This is hardly a bad thing. As best I can tell, the nobility of this place act with total impunity.”
As he spoke, he held his hands behind his back, didn’t pace or fidget. Contrasted with Norbert, who constantly tugged at his belt or flicked at imaginary dust on his mail shirt, or Chaddin, who frowned and furrowed his brow with every word spoken, Gideon was a pillar of calm and control.
“That is hardly fair—”
Landen’s protest was cut off as Gideon’s eyes suddenly blazed, a golden light emanating from them and filling the tent for an intense moment.
Crusade Page 18
