by Jeff Wheeler
No! she wanted to scream. The knights charged, closing the gap, as Demont’s men waited for them to come. They were arranged in four lines, a square, each man facing outward, shoulder to shoulder with their swords drawn. The gap in the middle showed no reserves. Thunder churned the air, the thunder of warhorses. Lia bit her lip, watching helplessly at the slaughter about to happen. The slaughter Maderos had predicted.
Let him live, she thought silently. Please, let him live! I am not too late!
Thinking was not enough. She needed to act. To do something to aid him. The flutter and color of a dozen battle flags caught her eye, nearer to her than the charging knights. The flags were large and sweeping, fixed on poles and fluttering in the air like huge forked tongues to rally the king’s soldiers. They were held by mounted soldiers on a solitary hill near the wooded glen where she was hidden. It was near enough that she could see the slope of the helms, the detail on their armor, and hear the nickering of impatient steeds. One battle flag in particular caught her eye. It was red and gold, tattered, and charred black in places. Some fleeting memory darted through her thoughts like watery silver, something she had heard back at Muirwood. That the king taunted his enemies by flashing the banners of his defeated foes, a deliberate design to crush the will of his enemies, to weaken their resolve to fight, to seed their minds with doubts.
What was it about the broken red flag that seemed so familiar? Suspended from a long pole mounted on a giant spear, it hung vertically, split into two halves partway across and pointed. A symbol was in the center of the flag – a circle with two slash marks through it. At each point above, below, and to the sides, words had been sewn with gold thread against the red. Not just any words. The script was strange and elliptical and hauntingly familiar.
Reaching into her pouch, Lia withdrew the Cruciger orb and the thought struck her. The text on the flag was Pry-rian. The orb spoke to her in Pry-rian. It was the battle flag of the kingdom of Pry-Ree that caught her eye.
Emotions she did not understand engulfed her. She cried and choked at the same time, not certain which she should be doing but not able to help either. The advancing horses were closing the gap quickly, building speed. Lances glittered in the dawn. There it was, in all its blaze and glory – the battle flag of Pry-Ree. Her flag. The flag of her forefathers – her Family. The feelings were so strong, she could hardly breathe.
He is delivered into your hands.
Part of her mind opened again, just as it had in the Bearden Muir. Just as Almaguer and his men had been delivered into her hands, she realized that the king’s army was delivered up as well. Their arrival at Winterrowd was neither too soon nor too late. No, the Medium had allowed them to arrive deliberately. From down in the field, she could sense Demont’s thoughts, firm and resolute. He did not doubt. He did not fear. He led a small company of raw, young mastons with courage and belief, knowing that the Medium would save them and he had prepared his lines to defend against the rush of knights on every side. Even as death approached on churning hooves, Demont believed he could win and he chose action. The Medium had brought her to save them.
He is delivered into your hands.
If the king’s thoughts fed his army, if his will was imposed on them, then what would happen should he fall? Lia looked down at the orb in her hand. Where is the king?
The orb began to whir until the spindles pointed away from the charging horsemen and to the small hill and the tight ring of soldiers holding the battle flags. The one in the center wore a crown over his helmet, but he was not the king. He was a decoy. She knew that in her bones.
He is delivered into your hands.
Then she understood and gasped. The king held aloft the pole with the Pry-rian flag. Her flag. He could not have known that the one he had chosen was part of her ancestry. She had barely realized it herself days ago. It amazed her. If the king fell, it would change everything. It would alter the future of the kingdom, perhaps even ending the maston-killings. The Medium demanded action from her or Demont’s army would fail. She knew what to do.
Reaching down, she grabbed the ash bow that belonged to Jon Hunter. Confidence surged in her veins. She retrieved a single arrow from the quiver. She remembered all the steps that Jon taught her. How to hold it firmly. How to load it so that the odd-colored feather was on top. Gripping the taut bowstring with the tips of her fingers, she pulled and drew it back to the corner of her mouth. There was no aiming, not at that distance. She had never launched an arrow that far before or hit anything so distant with accuracy. Yet confidence whispered in her mind that the Medium would not let her miss. She never doubted it.
The charging horsemen were almost on Demont’s men. A murmuring groan rose up from the field. A collective gasp before the clash.
He is delivered into your hands or Demont’s army will fall.
The bowstring twanged and the arrow flew. Suddenly the king jerked straight, the arrow catching him in a chink of armor in his neck, then he toppled off the horse. The battle flag of Pry-Ree dropped from the dead man’s fingers, its end stabbing into the hilltop and the wind caught the banner and unfurled it. The power of the Medium surged from Lia into the battle flag, and then spilled throughout the field below, gushing from her like a Leering stone, spreading a web of safety with the breeze.
Spears appeared amidst Demont’s soldiers. As the ends were jammed into the ground, the sharp heads lifted, greeting the horsemen with a row of teeth. The stampede of hooves could not stop in time. A razor edge of spear tips awaited them – a crush of men and beasts and steel. Had the spears been there all along, hidden in the grass?
She watched the horses crunch against the teeth of steel until she could bear no longer the sight of it, or endure the flood of power that was burning her alive. The weight of the Medium crushed her again and she blacked out.
* * *
“It is the mind that makes the body rich. As the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so does honor peer in the meanest habit. A maston is as unhappy or as happy as he has convinced himself he is.”
- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE:
The Fallen
Lia awoke to the prodding of a staff into the small of her back. “Wake up. Wake up, sister. It is over and I am finished scriving. You missed the rest. Can you hear me? Eh? Wake up!”
It was Maderos. Lia sat up slowly, her head a fog of thoughts. Drained – she was completely empty inside. Opening her eyes, she looked over at him, seated on the ground near her on the hillside next to the battlefield. Maderos brushed the crinkled shavings of aurichalcum from the tome on his lap. He looked down at the words again, running his fingers over the etchings, as if savoring some delicious dish. When he saw he had her attention, he spoke softly, clearly.
“The battle of Winterrowd did not last past the morning, and then it was over. The field next to the village was littered with the slaughter. Many from the defeated army of the king escaped into the Bearden Muir, rather than be captured or ransomed, but many were devoured by the moors instead of men. In tales to come, many will ascribe the glory of victory to Garen Demont and to the peculiar arrangement of his soldiers and tactics. How they shied horses and used rings of spears to protect each other. Others will say it was because Demont only allowed mastons to serve him, that they were worthy to call upon the Medium to deliver them from the king’s wrath. These are near to the truth. The husk but not the kernel. The battle of Winterrowd was won by a wretched from Muirwood Abbey. None of the witnesses of the battle ever knew about her or what she did that day, how she used the Medium to defy the army of a king. No one but I alone and those who read this record. The world may never know the secret. But I, Maderos, know the secret just as I know the wretched. I will not reveal her name.”
Then he closed the tome and set it back in the sheepskin with the scriving tools, folded the sheepskin, and lifted the heavy tome back into his pack. Lia watched, a little jealous still of his abi
lity to read. She wanted to read the other things he had written. She eyed the tome with hunger and then the thought slammed against her like a blacksmith’s hammer.
“How many of Demont’s men fell in the battle?” she asked him.
“How many pethets? Perhaps they all deserved to die. But you will learn soon enough, little sister.” He slowly stood, resting his arms on the twisted staff he had poked her with.
“The king’s army - it was defeated then?”
Maderos nodded, then waved his staff at the field. “It was a slaughter, just as I told you. Do not suppose that Demont’s men did not suffer for their victory. There is not a man among them who is not injured, bleeding, or weary. Each fought bravely. But they do not know why they won.” His eyes narrowed pointedly. “They would not believe you, even if you told them.”
“You sound like the Aldermaston,” Lia said grudgingly.
He smirked. “Perhaps that is so. Perhaps I have lingered near Muirwood too long now. I knew when I saw you, sister. The Medium made it clear to me that you would help overthrow the kingdom. It is in your blood, I think. Go find the pethet, child. Go down amidst the corpses.”
“Is he dead?” She didn’t want Maderos to leave her alone. Her stomach turned into ice. She wanted him to stay and answer questions, to calm her sudden panic. But she recognized he would never reveal more than he should.
“Use the orb. He is down there. Then you must return to Muirwood. The Aldermaston expects you. There, I have said it. The Aldermaston expects you. That should be enough.”
Lia rose, sick with worry, and brushed dirt from her skirt, though it was still filthy. She saw soldiers wandering through the mist and fields below. It was littered with the dead.
* * *
Find Colvin.
Lia focused on the orb and her thoughts of him and not on the carnage of the battlefield or her throbbing ankle. She tried calming her raging heart and brushed unwilling tears from her eyes. Wagons from the village lumbered amidst the scene, and bodies were stacked and brought to the center of the field. It was strange seeing little children milling about, gazing at the corpses, unafraid. The morning haze burned away slowly, leaving wisps of smoke and fog about the hinterlands.
The smell in the air – there was no way to describe the smell of death. She had been raised in an Abbey kitchen and knew her work by the way things smelled. The smell of loaves finished baking. The smell of cinders and ash as she swept out the fireplaces. Of fragrant spices and pungent aromas mixed, matched, baked, and burned. The stench of the field was overpowering. She gagged, even after she covered her mouth with her hand.
The spindle on the orb led her into the thickest part of the battlefield. New writing appeared on it. Lia stopped, looked ahead, searching the faces of the dead men, and then saw Colvin approaching through the haze. He walked ponderously, as if he dragged a weight of stones behind him. His face was black with smoke and scabs, his tunic a mess of stains, but his smile when he saw her was radiant. It was the sunrise after an endless night. As he drew near, she saw the gleaming collar, the jeweled necklace dangling from his neck and thumping against the mail of his hauberk.
After tugging off his blood-stained gloves, he stuffed them into his belt. His fingers were caked with dirt. But his smile – it was thrilling to see. She wanted to touch him, to know he was real, but shyness forbade her. Relief engulfed her and she bit her tongue to keep from sobbing.
“Have you heard the news, Lia?” he asked her, his smile beaming.
“What is it?” she said, thrilled to see him alive. Her heart felt like bursting.
He shook his head, as if it were too delicious to speak. “The old king is dead. His son and heir was captured on the field. They are already calling him the young king. He is in Demont’s tent right now. I just came from there myself. Demont is declared Lord Protector of the realm.” One of his hands strayed up, fondling the collar and its jeweled symbol. “Lia, I was just made a knight-maston. Just now, by the young king’s hand. A knight-maston of the order of Winterrowd. The earldom of my father will be granted in a ceremony soon. Lia – I never believed…I never hoped…it feels like a dream. That I will awaken and it is dawn and the battle has not happened yet. Is it…is it real?”
She wanted him to throw his arms around her and hug her, but he did not. She smiled to hide her pang of disappointment. “Must I now call you Sir Colvin? And curtsy when I see you?”
His smile did not dim. “No, Lia. Never. The Medium spared my life because of you. My doubts would have killed me. They should have killed me. But whenever I feared, I thought on you.” He looked around, as if realizing they were standing in the middle of death itself. “Come – this is no place for you. Walk with me back to my tent and hide that orb. Come, take my arm. Cover your head with the cowl and try not to look. It is a grisly scene.”
He led her back through the failing mists, talking briskly as he marched. “I felt your warning last night about the imposters coming around the rear. I warned Demont that I had a feeling we would be ambushed from behind. It was a stroke of good favor at that dark hour. When the riders appeared, there were only a few and they came claiming to join our force. I think they were there to stab Demont. One offered to show him his hand, which is a ritual mastons do to prove one another, but Demont asked to see his chaen shirt instead. The man balked, for he was wearing a medallion and his skin was tainted by its brand. When they saw they could not deceive us, they tried to fight their way clear, but we easily mastered them and learned of others in the woods and captured them as well.”
Colvin led her through the muddy field and towards the canopy of pavilions she had watched the night before. It was the king’s pavilions, with pennants and poles and the battle flags of fallen foes assembled together.
“Demont knew our trouble, that if we were attacked on all sides while facing the king’s army, he knew we would be overrun. In that hour, he remembered a tactic he had learned from his father. A tactic he had discussed at the battle of Maseve, but did not feel confident enough to try. Demont believed that his father had failed that day because he did not trust the inspiration from the Medium. The tactic is called a shiltron square – you use pikes and spears in a tight box. That way, you can repel the attack from any side. It is brilliant but requires great courage. Standing fast when knights are charging you with lances is not easy. It helped offset their numbers and withstand their first charge without breaking.”
He guided her around the twisted remains of a soldier with a death-grimace. “The Medium wanted us to prevail. That became clear during the fight. Lia – none of them could touch me. I felt the Medium coursing through me like fire. It gave me strength to do things I had never dreamed of. It protected me from harm.”
It protected all of you, Lia thought. She wanted to tell him what Maderos had told her. But his words of warning kept her silent.
They reached the curtain of pavilions and Colvin led her to one of the smaller ones, a rich blue color with gray trappings, richly furnished inside with rugs, a table, candles, and a pallet to sleep on, cloaked with fur-lined blankets. The smell of tallow overwhelmed the stench of the field beyond.
“You must be tired, Lia. There – rest on my pallet. There is food on the table and drink. I will send a horseman to Muirwood to tell the Aldermaston you are safe. If he will not take you back, then I will make sure you are cared for, even if I must take you on in my own household.” He stood by the opening, staring at her pointedly. “And you will read, Lia. Even if I must teach you myself. Get some rest. There is much to be done today.”
“Send a horseman to Billerbeck Abbey as well,” Lia told him. “Tell your sister you are safe as well. Tell her what you could not tell her before.”
His eager smile lost none of its radiance. “I will. And I will tell her about you.”
* * *
When Lia awoke on the warm and comfortable pallet, she found she was being watched by a young man she had never met. His eyes blinked as did hers, and sh
e sat up in alarm.
“Do not be frightened,” he said, rising quickly from the chest he sat on. He held up his hands in a placating gesture and backed away. “Your name is Lia. I know of you from Colvin. He asked me to watch over you, to see that none disturbed your rest.”
She rubbed her eyes, feeling awkward and embarrassed, for his was a handsome face. Younger than Colvin but older than her. Probably sixteen or seventeen. His hair was long and fair, the color of straw. It was unfashionable, but he was still handsome. His features were slender.
“How long have you been watching me?” she asked, aware of the filthy dress she wore. Part of the sleeve was ripped and she wore a man’s bracers and girdle. “Who are you?”
His eyes widened. “I have embarrassed you. Forgive me. I have had sufficient time to mop the blood from my face while you kept vigil all night. I should have remembered that my sisters are keenly aware of their appearance, yet I thought nothing of it. Again, forgive me. My name is Edmon. My older brother was the earl of Norris-York.” He stepped closer, looking into her eyes pleadingly while fidgeting with his hands. “I am now to hold that estate, humble as it is.” His expression became pained. “Let me explain. My brother was sent to bring Colvin Price to Winterrowd. Our domains border each other. My brother was to find him near Muirwood and bring him here. I have since learned that it was you who led Colvin here because my brother was murdered by the sheriff of Mendenhall. You are the one who found where his body lay in a garden near Muirwood.” He looked down for a moment. “I am indebted to you. Because of you, Colvin brought me our father’s sword and chaen shirt. His blood-stained tunic. I am not yet a maston, but I will be within the year, if the Medium wills it.” He stopped, turned red in the face, then bowed his head. “I wanted to thank you in person, Lia of Muirwood. My gratitude may be small compared to Colvin’s, but I feel it most keenly. You made it possible for me to fight this day and win my collar. I will always be grateful to you and count you as a friend.”
