Traitor's Blade (The Greatcoats)

by de Castell, Sebastien

  Cheat me at cards and I’ll fall for your plan,

  Take my own life if you think that you can—’

  I let the dying man who’d been my shield slide down to the ground, only to see another soldier with a crossbow raising it towards me. I took a step to the right and raised my arms up to cover my face.

  ‘—but you’ll die long a’fore you touch my caravan!’

  The crossbow bolt narrowly missed me, but, fortunately, it didn’t miss the man who had worked his way behind me. I suspected that Captain Lynniac would be having a severe talk with his bowmen after this fight. Even better was the fact that I thought I might have heard someone from the caravan sing that last line with us.

  But our time was running out. We’d taken out half of them, but that just left more openings for the crossbows. Brasti had some blood on his temple where he’d taken a glancing blow. Kest was doing all right holding off two men, but he was getting dangerously open, and if one of the men with crossbows saw the chance … To make things worse, the ground beneath our feet was turning into mud and muck and it wouldn’t be long before one of us slipped or tripped over another man’s body. And worst of all, we were running out of verses to the damned song.

  ‘My Lord is the one what owns my land—’

  I took down the man in front of me with a kick to his knee, followed by a strike to the side of his head. I saw Kest had taken both his men down, but Brasti was struggling, swinging wildly to block the blows of the swordsman in front of him. He wasn’t singing any more.

  ‘My Saint is the one what guides my hand—’

  Captain Lynniac was stepping back from the fray and shouting to his men. Two of the men with crossbows were reloading, but the third was taking aim.

  ‘My God knows I am his to command—’

  At his shout the rest of the Knight’s men pulled back and I saw Brasti looking around frantically for an opponent and not seeing the crossbow aimed squarely at his chest not twenty feet away. I tried to push past my own last men in a futile effort to get there in time. I could see Kest, not moving, his overly practical nature telling him there was no point. Brasti’s head turned and saw the crossbow too late. His hands started to move reflexively to guard his face when a bolt appeared in the throat of the Knight’s bowman.

  There was a second of dead silence, and no one moved. Then I turned my head and looked behind me at a man in one of our wagons holding an empty crossbow. It was Blondie. ‘But my brother is the man who guards my caravan,’ he sang softly.

  And that, I thought, is the old saying: ‘The song is swifter than the sword.’

  I turned back to the fight. Most of the captain’s men were on the ground now. Two were still standing, but they were wary, and edging back. Lynniac himself was looking straight at me as he raised his right arm up in line with my gut. He had taken the cocked crossbow from his dead man. Knights don’t normally use bows – they consider them coward’s weapons. And knives are good enough for a soldier’s need, perhaps, but not good enough for a Knight’s honour. In my entire life I’d never seen a Knight who would even touch a crossbow. But Lynniac had lost a fight, and a Knight’s sense of honour could not forgive that. He had watched his men beaten by outlaws he considered less than dogs, and without weapons. And apparently he had no more use for honour and he was going to put a bolt into me out of pure spite. He gave me something that was a cross between a snarl and a smile, and again that sense of familiarity flared.

  Then he started to laugh, and suddenly made himself known to me.

  I remembered that laugh. At first it was just the soft touch of a sour memory, but it quickly filled up my world until I couldn’t really see Captain Lynniac, and I didn’t see if the sword, which I had just grabbed off the ground and thrown at him like an amateur, had hit him or missed entirely, because all I could see were the five hundred Knights who’d come to Castle Aramor to depose King Paelis and outlaw the Greatcoats. I couldn’t tell if the bolt that he had loosed had lightly grazed the side of my neck or if it was jammed in my throat because all I could feel was the heat emanating from the burned wreckage of the King’s library – the hundred ashen corpses of the texts that had meant so much to him. I couldn’t tell if Kest’s and Brasti’s shouts were encouragement or warning me that someone else was behind me, because all I could hear was the laughter of the Ducal Knights as my King’s head was jammed onto a pole and hoisted up atop Castle Aramor’s parapet. That laugh. As impossible as it seemed, Captain Lynniac’s laugh was how I remembered him, and it was both the reason and the means for me to put him out of this world.

  I can’t explain what happened to me except to say that my anger gave way to a recklessness that felt like a soft, grey place of infinite indifference. The first time it had happened to me had been years ago, before I’d met the King, but there had been other incidents since then, and they came closer together now. Coming out of it was getting harder and harder too. That was why I was grateful, in a distant and uninterested way, when Kest struck me down with the pommel of one of the fallen soldier’s swords.

  BERSERKERS

  I came to a little while later sitting at the base of a tree and staring at the bodies of Captain Lynniac and his men. How had they caught up with us so quickly? And more importantly, why had they bothered? Word of Tremondi’s death couldn’t have reached the market until after we’d already left – and even if it had, since when did Knights give a Saint’s testicle about whether a Lord Caravaner lived or died? The only explanation was money: someone had told Captain Lynniac that we’d killed Tremondi and taken off with his money. It wasn’t exactly a noble motive, but these weren’t noble times and, no matter what the old songs say, Knights aren’t noble people.

  Blondie and the others were searching the corpses for coin and finding spare weapons where they could. I noticed that none of them tried to pocket what they found but set it out on a blanket that Feltock had laid out in the dirt. There was a fair amount of money there; the men had been well-provisioned, probably from waylaying other caravans earlier in the week.

  Feltock put the extra weapons in one of the wagons and divided the coin between his men. He came up to me and handed me a pouch. ‘Market rules. You fought, you feed, same as everyone else. I don’t like Trattari much, but you did your jobs.’

  I waved him off. ‘Thanks, but I can’t take it. We only take what we earn as pay. Give it to your rigger. He isn’t healing well, and he’s not being paid for this trip.’

  Trin overheard us and came forward. ‘Her Ladyship insists,’ she said. ‘You risk offending her if you refuse.’

  ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we’ll definitely pass.’

  Feltock shook his head and laughed. ‘Are you serious, man? I never took you for no monks.’

  Brasti grumbled from somewhere behind me, ‘Me neither.’

  ‘That’s the way it goes,’ I said.

  The captain must have taken some small liking to me because he put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Listen, boy, you earned this and you take it. I’ve seen lots of Trattari in my time. Trust me, there’s them that take what they can find and count themselves lucky for it. There are even some that have taken to robbing caravans.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘Greatcoats don’t steal, not unless the King’s Laws have been broken and the fine has to be collected, and then it’s only from those who broke the law.’

  ‘Believe that if you want to,’ the captain said, ‘but you’re lying to yourself if you do.’ He wandered off and I thought that was that, but a few moments later, he came back with three wineskins. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them to me. ‘It’s just wine. I reckon you’re still allowed to drink, right?’

  I nodded gratefully. A good night of drinking would get the three of us back to right again, or as close to it as we got those days.

  Feltock held up a finger. ‘Just promise me you won’t be singing that bloody song all night. Half the men are still humming that damned tune. Is that why they call you a Cantor of the Great
coats?’

  I grinned. ‘Go to any small village and try getting people to remember the details of how a particular law was applied in a particular case, and they won’t remember it past the next night of drinking. In fact, the average person probably can’t name a tenth of the laws that govern them. But give it to them in a song, and they’ll remember it their whole lives. The drinking only helps.’

  ‘Well, that’s as may be,’ Feltock said, scratching his head. ‘Seems to have worked on my men, anyway.’

  He tossed me a pair of coins. ‘It’s this week’s pay. And I’ll give your share of the rest to Cheek – he’s my spearman, the one you embarrassed at the market. It’ll keep him from wanting to kill you in your sleep.’

  Comforting thought. I took the coins and wineskins over to Kest and Brasti and we set up camp for the night. The two of them were in an odd mood, so we didn’t speak much at all.

  I took first watch and drank a little of the wine to keep me warm. I was surprised when Feltock again sought me out, which was unusual; he didn’t take a watch at night as he had to be sharp all day.

  ‘Seen anything?’ he asked.

  I shook my head and offered him a wineskin. He accepted it and took a swig, dribbling a bit down his chin. He looked as if he’d had some wine already.

  ‘Lad,’ he began, ‘I need to talk to you about something. Now, I’m an old soldier, and I know how men fight. I know what they can do, and I don’t bandy with false words. So I’ll say it straight out. You’re good fighters. Your man there with the bow is a devil, and the tall one is as fast with a blade as I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘And?’ I asked.

  ‘And you’re the one what scares me,’ he said. He waved his hand before I could speak. ‘No, let me say it plain. You’re a good man with the sword, and some Saint made you a damned good tactician. You kept the boys together in that first trouble even when they were acting fools, and you saved us a good deal of grief from this so-called Knight and his men.’ He motioned for the wineskin and took another swig before handing it back to me.

  ‘I thought you said you were going to speak plainly,’ I said.

  ‘I’m getting to it, just give me a chance.’ He sighed. ‘You’re a good fighter, but I won’t have no berserkers in my guard. I put up with a lot, Saints know I do, but I won’t have that.’

  ‘Berserker? Me? Name your Saints and I’ll swear by them: I’m no berserker.’

  He looked me straight in the eye. ‘I saw what you did to that great lout with the axe. I never wanted that bugger in my caravan, but her Ladyship overruled me then, just like she did with you. Truth be told, I never even got his name. But the way you went after him, boy, I never wanted to see that again.’

  I hadn’t thought about the incident at the market since we’d left – I didn’t really want to. The man was trying to kill me and he was wearing armour and I had no choice.

  ‘Now don’t go fooling yourself, lad,’ Feltock said. ‘I can see by the look on your face you’re trying to write a story in your head, and I’m telling you it’s false. You say you aren’t a berserker, fine. Your friends swear up and down you aren’t. But tell the truth now: you were growling and shouting nonsense at that man, and you sounded more than a little crazy in that market.’

  I thought about that for a moment, then I said, ‘No, Captain, trust me, that wasn’t crazy. I’ve been crazy before, and that’s not what it sounds like.’

  Feltock’s mouth was open. ‘Saint Birgid-who-weeps-rivers, boy, what does it sound like then?’

  ‘Quiet,’ I said. ‘Mostly very quiet.’

  He took another drink from the wineskin. ‘And that Knight, Lynniac? You ran straight for him like a madman – any man what knew how to hold a crossbow proper would’ve skewered you. Was that you being your own sane self?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘that was my answer.’

  ‘Your answer for what?’

  I looked out at the night sky and the stars that winked at us as if they were all in on some great joke. ‘Five years ago, after the Ducal Army took Castle Aramor, they killed our King and hauled his corpse up to the top of the castle. They mounted his head on a pike. Some men cheered, some men looked away.’ I took another swig of my wine. ‘And some men just laughed.’

  ‘So Lynniac was there, was he?’

  ‘Lynniac was there,’ I said. ‘Commander of a division of Knights. I didn’t recognise him at first, but when he was pointing that crossbow at me and he started laughing …’

  Feltock bit the inside of his cheek. Then he said, ‘And you think you remember everyone who was there that day?’

  I thought about it for a moment. ‘Not everyone,’ I replied. Feltock was looking at me intently, trying to see if I knew, if I did remember. More trouble than it will be worth, I thought, but I was a little drunk and a little tired so I said, ‘But since you’re asking, yes, General Feltock, I remember you.’

  Feltock’s eyes went wide for a moment, but then he gave a bitter laugh. ‘Not “General”,’ he said. ‘Not for a few years now.’

  We drank some more in silence.

  ‘So,’ he said, uncrossing his legs with a crack. ‘Are you gonna come for me next, boy?’

  I sighed. ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? I was there, wasn’t I? I was one of those what took down your King, wasn’t I? So what’s the difference between me and Lynniac?’

  ‘You didn’t laugh.’

  He just looked at me for a while and then said, ‘Huh.’ Then he stood up and started walking back to the wagons.

  ‘Why “Captain” Feltock?’ I asked when he was a few paces away. ‘Why aren’t you a general any more?’

  Feltock turned and gave me a sour grin. He tossed the rest of his wineskin back to me. ‘Because, boy, when they put the King’s head on that pole, I forgot to laugh.’

  TO MURDER A KING

  I can’t say for certain what happened after I found Aline in that tavern. I remember some of it – fragments, pieces of eggshell that I put together in my mind. But the shapes they form are never quite right. I know I stood there for a long time. I think I may have buried her out back, though I can’t be sure.

  There was a tavern master there and, though I don’t remember him talking to me, oddly, I can remember things he said. He told me he tried to stop them and I had no reason not to believe him, except that he was still alive. He told me his own daughter had been killed too, when she started screaming too loud. But I didn’t see his daughter’s body anywhere around. I’m not sure if I killed the tavern master or not. It’s hard to say. There were so many people to kill, after all. I think I asked him where Castle Aramor was, and he told me it was four days’ ride south. But I didn’t have a horse, so there was no easy way for me to get there. But I wasn’t thinking about horses or travel. I wasn’t thinking about anything except that it was very important to me to go to Castle Aramor and kill the King. I would have to kill the Duke, too, obviously, and all his men, and definitely Fost with the axe. But the King had to come first and, after all, I wasn’t likely to forget the rest of them.

  I remember it was night when I left the tavern. Having no horse or money, I just started walking south. I don’t think I was going all that fast, but I did just keep going. I walked and walked, and when I couldn’t walk any more, I would just fall by the side of the road and sleep. Then I would walk again. I must have eaten at some point, because four days’ ride is at least twenty by foot, but I don’t remember that. I think I was attacked once or twice, but I couldn’t afford the delay so I killed them and moved on. It had to have been twenty days, but I only ever remember the nights.

  Sometimes Aline would talk to me. She would tell me to stop and rest. She would say that if she just spread her legs for the Duke and his men one more time, they would leave us in peace and we would grow old together and laugh about it. I think history has proved her wrong on that point, but when she said it I laughed anyway, just to see what it would feel like. Sometimes Aline would tell me I had just kille
d someone and it wasn’t going to bring her back to life, and I would ask her if, now that he was dead, she was going to bed him in the Afterlife. That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly and I was just imagining her anyway.

  So I kept walking. I must have encountered the Duke somewhere on the road because I was carrying a sack with me and his head was in it. I wondered how I had got past his men, but perhaps I had found him in an inn somewhere and killed him while they slept. I seemed to be pretty cunning then.

  At one point there was an old lady who gave me something to eat. I didn’t have anything to give her in return, and when I offered her the Duke’s head, she told me to put it back in the bag, and we went outside together and buried it in her garden. She gave me more to eat then, and we put some food in a bag that I took with me.

  Sometimes I wonder if some of the things I remember really happened at all. It seems unlikely that I would have run into the Duke on the South Road, and even less likely that I would have managed to cut off his head without anyone noticing. And the truth is, I don’t kill people very often, even when I’m angry. And Aline – she’s never talked to me since, so either I imagined that part or else I said something very bad and she’s still mad at me.

  So I walked on, southwards, to Castle Aramor, where the King lived – at least for a little while longer. Sometimes it rained and sometimes it didn’t. The distinction didn’t feel very important any more. I didn’t really talk to anyone I encountered, except for the old woman, but she did most of the talking anyway. So I suppose that’s why, by the time I reached Castle Aramor and started my long, slow climb up the tunnel that carried away human waste and animal carcases, I hadn’t heard that the King was already dead. It wouldn’t have mattered much if I had: there would always be a new King, and that one would need to be killed too.

  *

  The first thing I noticed was that he wasn’t as big as I’d remembered. In fact, he was just about the scrawniest individual I’d ever seen. And his hair was all wrong. King Greggor had short grey hair in a military cut. This man had long, stringy brown hair beneath a slight, ill-fitting crown. And he smelled bad, which is saying something since I had spent the better part of a day clawing my way up a narrow stone tunnel that carried refuse and human waste from Castle Aramor down to the gully that might once have been part of an effort to dig a moat.