Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  “BACK!” He whirled Ardent. Those men were lost the moment they kept charging, he told himself. They raced back to their original spot, the two lances that someone had planted in the ground serving as his target. He pulled one free and turned his mount with his knees, counting the other men as they arrived around him.

  Sixteen. They’d hurt the Delondeur men, but lost a quarter of their own. “We cannot afford to overreach,” he yelled. “One charge, one target, then pull back as fast as you can.”

  He struggled for just a moment to settle Ardent, who wanted back into the fight, when he heard Mol’s voice from too close by for his comfort.

  “Hold,” she said, the word ringing out.

  Instantly, Ardent settled, letting out a heavy breath. Around him Allystaire could see the mounts of the other men doing the same, instantly rooting themselves in place. She was ordering the horses, he thought, with some slight awe. Not us.

  The girl walked to the front of the line. Allystaire swung out of his saddle and stepped in front of her. “Mol. Please, lass. Back to the Temple. You cannot be exposed out—”

  “I have a part to play in this too, Arm,” Mol intoned, turning to face him. He could see a tear glinting on her cheek, a glimpse of her true age behind the aura of the Voice. “Though I hesitate to do it.”

  She turned to face the darkness. Beyond, Allystaire could hear orders ringing out, knew that the Delondeur knights were fanning out into a line and starting forward. If he squinted, with the very faint dregs of Torvul’s potion remaining to him, he could make out their shapes coming forward, the fires behind them having all but died out.

  There was another sound, though, a deep rumbling. And then a long, mournful howl. A wolf? He turned to the girl with puzzlement. Then he heard the baying, and the rumbling grew louder. Not wolves, he thought. Dogs. Dogs, and…

  His thought was cut off as the Delondeur line came rumbling into his vision, lances couched. He bent as if to snatch Mol up. Then the far left of the Delondeur line exploded, man and horse flung about and crushed under the weight of a stampede of ordinary cattle.

  And then the dogs swarmed over what was left. Village and farmfolk gathered dogs around them everywhere, Allystaire knew, and for a moment felt keenly the absence of the favored hounds he’d left behind him in Oyrwyn. The dogs were of no particular breed or stock; they were large, small, and in between, and they darted at the horses and the knights utterly heedless of their own safety, dozens of them flying in from all directions in the darkness. Those with the size or the legs leapt at the knights in their saddles, breaking teeth on armor and dragging a few from their seats.

  Others darted at the horses themselves, snapping at fragile lower legs or flitting beneath them to tear at their bellies.

  The sound of their howling and baying filled the night, all too often punctuated with loud yelps as one was stamped on by a horse or fell to a Delondeur weapon.

  Allystaire stood watching, transfixed and slightly horrified at the display. Chaddin and his knights did much the same.

  “Now!” Mol yelled, snapping him back from the sight. He could hear no small grief in her voice. “Don’t let it be for nothing!”

  Allystaire leapt into the saddle, lagging behind, as the other horses leapt to the girl’s command. He could feel Ardent’s impatience, and he didn’t bother to snatch up a lance, instead pulling his hammer free.

  The village’s dogs peeled away. He hadn’t time to count but he suspected that less than half of them ran off to safety. He lashed out with his hammer mechanically, too stunned by what he’d just seen to pay enough attention to the fight. He took a hard blow off his shield, and another that skimmed off his helmet and pauldron, blooming pain in his shoulder. Allystaire snapped into focus and bashed out with his shield, sending a man from his saddle. Then he turned for another, hammer swinging in a tight arc and crushing the side of another knight’s chest.

  The shock of circumstance and the sudden close combat took the fight of the Delondeur men, and they broke in short order, retreating. Allystaire heard Chaddin’s voice. “After them! On their heels,” he yelled.

  “NO,” he yelled. “HOLD!”

  Chaddin turned towards him in the saddle, his armor dented and wet, as was the sword clutched in his fist. “We have them on the run! Now is not the time to fall back.”

  “Hold,” came Mol’s voice, rising over the yelling and the din of the Delondeur retreat, though it hardly seemed loud enough.

  Once again, every horse stopped in its tracks like it was rooted to the spot, and turned, placidly, to face the girl. Delondeur mounts whose riders had been killed or knocked clear did the same, trotting towards her as eager and pliant as if she’d trained them all their lives.

  As one, the men—the dozen that were left—swung from the saddle. Mol walked, barefooted, towards Allystaire’s side, and reached up for Ardent’s bridle.

  The huge grey lowered his neck towards her, pressing his nose against her shoulder more gently than Allystaire would’ve believed possible.

  She murmured to the destrier. Ardent tried to lift his head away with a whinny, but she tugged his face back towards her and murmured again. “Ardent will lead the rest of your mounts to safety out the other gate. The enemy has abandoned its camp there,” she announced suddenly. Then she reached up and deftly unclasped the warhorse’s bridle, tugging the bit from his mouth and tossing it to the ground. “Free their mouths,” she said. “They may need to graze.”

  Reins and bridles were tugged free by gauntleted hands as the horses all fell into place behind Allystaire’s destrier.

  The huge grey came to Allystaire’s side and nudged against him, pausing for a moment. Allystaire patted the side of his neck carefully. The huge grey gave its mane a shake and pulled away from him.

  “Avoid any men,” the girl yelled after him. “Come back only if you hear me.”

  The herd of horses fell into place behind Ardent, then thundered out of Thornhurst and into the darkness.

  Then she turned to Allystaire, and said hoarsely, “The Temple.” She started walking, and the men, Allystaire included, followed her.

  “It’s not fair,” he heard her saying, grief choking the words. “Not right to ask this of them. Not what She would’ve wanted.”

  Allystaire took a few steps to her side. “Mol, lass. You may have saved us all tonight.”

  The girl stopped and leaned against him. He carefully set his arm against her back, and she muttered, “Her Gift can’t hurt me, you know.”

  Still mindful of it, he bent slightly and picked her up. “We do what we can, Mol. And then what we must. She would tell you the same, I am sure.”

  She gave him a quick embrace, arms wrapping around his neck, then leapt free to the ground. “That we needed it does not mean it was right to have asked it.”

  Behind them, horses, men, and cows cried out in pain and terror, lying broken and dead or dying along the path of the stampede. Allystaire paused and turned back to face them. “You go to the Temple, Mol. I must see to the men and beasts.”

  “Aye,” she replied. “Bring all the wounded in first. Gather bodies to burn if you can.”

  “Aye.” In his mind he was already reaching out to Torvul and Idgen Marte, and telling them to bring volunteers.

  * * *

  Nyndstir had been crouching by the cattlepen, taking the lay of the land and wondering where he could do some damage, when the stampede went off and the animals crushed the fence like parchment and went lowing off into the darkness. He’d given a wide berth, then crept closer to watch the carnage as they crashed into the exposed flank of the Baron’s heavy horse.

  When all the shouting was done and Delondeur’s men retreated, he had half a mind to go out onto the battlefield and present himself to the man in the bright armor. Something about him tickled Nyndstir’s memory, but he couldn’t put his finger on what
.

  Don’t want that man takin’ me for an enemy, either, he thought as he watched him and a few others beginning to sweep the battlefield. Staying hidden along a fold of ground seemed the smarter choice.

  He expected them to make knife work of it, quick and merciful ends for the wounded. He was all the more surprised when he saw the man in his armor kneel at the side of a man whose legs were crushed under his felled mount. He rolled the dead horse away like another man might a mid-size log for the fire, and then placed his hands upon the blessedly-unconscious knight.

  Then the man suddenly woke with a long, harsh scream, swinging his arms wildly about him. Still the knight just knelt by his side.

  When the knight stood up, the other man looked down at his legs. Then slowly, disbelievingly, he rolled over, pushed himself to his feet. With wobbling, impossible steps, he followed after the man who’d just healed him.

  “Braech bugger me if I’ve ever seen the like,” Nyndstir muttered, awestruck.

  Then he watched the man move about the battlefield, one by one, waking the dying and the broken and setting them back on their feet.

  As he was watching these miracles unfold before him, he heard a lowing and saw a line of cattle moving past him, headed back towards their pen, retracing the lines of their own stampede. Their numbers were reduced, but they were perfectly calm.

  Nyndstir Obertsun was at a loss for the right oath.

  Chapter 38

  The Rite of Blooming Blood

  “Landen,” the Baron Delondeur bellowed, moving back and forth across the half-empty camp. “LANDEN!”

  Men and horses milled around him, stunned by their reversal in the battle. Officers and knights tried to gather what was left of the Salt Spears to form them into units and take note of casualties. While the general panic had subsided, confusion reigned.

  The Baron knew, inwardly, that he needed to assume control, show them confidence and flair, and allow the men to settle down.

  But first he had to find his heir.

  “M’lord. M’lord Baron,” he heard, and whirled to find a young man in armor, unhelmed, with one arm loose and broken, limping towards him. His face was bathed in sweat and soot-stained. Lionel struggled to recall a name, but found none as the boy sank to a knee.

  “Up, lad. No time for that kind of formality in the field. What is your name and what have you to say?”

  “Sir Darrus Cartin, m’lord. I was given my spur this past fall as a member of Landen’s company—and I am sorry to say, m’lord, but I saw her unhorsed. I tried to fight to her side, but…” The man tried to lift his clearly wounded arm, grimacing in pain. In the lanterns he’d once again ordered gathered round him, he could see how the boy’s face paled when he moved it. “I didn’t see her killed, m’lord,” he added hastily. “But she took a wound.”

  “A wound valiantly earned in honest service is not something I’ll forget. A lordship is yours when we conclude this business,” Lionel bellowed, drawing the eyes of the men around him. “A hundred gold links, armor from my own smiths, and a horse from my own stables to the man who finds my heir in the coming day’s fight.”

  He felt the immediate effect the words had as they moved through the camp, passed by whispers and shouts. His command asserted himself. Composure was contagious, as was optimism about the coming fight. Delondeur turned for his tent, lantern bearers pacing him, smiling to himself.

  He stopped short of the flaps as he saw the unmistakable blue and yellow glow on the frozen ground.

  Lionel Delondeur gathered himself with a deep breath and held out one hand to pause his lantern-bearers, then threw open the flap, and stepped boldly in.

  Gethmasanar and Iriphet were both seated on the only camp chairs within the tent, leaving just his cot if he wished to sit. His bones ached, his shoulders protested the weight of armor, and his knees screamed in pain.

  Command the moment, he thought as he drew himself up imperiously. “Why did you not support our attack?”

  “We noted some heretofore unknown powers at work. We needed to evaluate them,” answered Iriphet, his words hanging in the air, an eerie echo of themselves. “We will have a suitable number of Wights ready very soon. In the meantime, we had a further notion.”

  “Soon? We could’ve crushed them with a dozen of the blasted things tonight!”

  “Tomorrow night would be more suitable. It is the midpoint of the winter season. This has symbolic as well as thaumaturgical significance,” Gethmasanar put in. “The omens were not quite right for this night. We should have told you but we had not consulted the runes nor the charts. It is, of course, our mistake.”

  Lionel’s stomach chilled, and despite his willpower, his years of practice, he felt himself shrinking down in the face of the trap they’d sprung. And it was, indeed, a trap.

  “We will,” Iriphet was already saying, “require the dead and the wounded. And as to this further notion…”

  “What of it,” Lionel answered, wearily shuffling to a table and leaning upon it. Tired. So Cold-damned tired.

  “Imagine the ache in your limbs, gone. Imagine being suffused with a strength unlike any you’d ever known, even in your days as Lionel Giantsbane.” Iriphet’s voice was a wavering, grating thing. Sometimes it almost sounded as if it echoed in his own throat. “Imagine, most of all, matching Coldbourne strength for strength.”

  “He has your daughter as a prisoner. We have confirmed this. With the power we offer, you could challenge for her return.”

  Lionel didn’t turn to face them. He splayed his fingers on the table before him, considered the gnarled and swollen knuckles of each hand, the bent fingers and scarred backs. “What must I do?”

  “Give us the necessary time, and the tools.” A pause. “A man, hale, or nearly so. A few of the wounded.”

  “The sooner we can begin the better. Outside our wagon we will have our implements prepared. Meet us there before dawn, which is coming in but a turn or two.”

  The sorcerers vanished into the shadows at the back of his tent. Lionel’s first impulse was to call for his lanterns, but he checked himself. He stood, gathered his hands into fists, and straightened his back. He went to the tent flap and pushed it back.

  “You,” he said, gesturing to one of the lantern bearers. “Fetch Sir Darrus Cartin. Tell him I wish to take counsel with him on a walk before dawn. Quickly now.”

  * * *

  “Landen Delondeur,” Chaddin spat, jabbing a finger towards a figure in the back of the knot of Delondeur prisoners. “Coldbourne,” the man yelled excitedly. “We have the Baron’s likely heir!”

  Allystaire looked up from the wounded man he was healing. Space was at a premium inside the Temple, which was jammed with the Mother’s people and the Delondeur prisoners. Idgen Marte, Torvul, and a party of Renard’s men moved in the distance still, finding wounded and bringing them back to be healed, along with a few Delondeur volunteers that Allystaire had already put back on their feet.

  The place felt anything but holy, now. It was rank with fear, with metal and sweat-stained leather, and the faint but unmistakably coppery tang of blood. Families huddled together, the children’s eyes huge and distant. Torvul moved among the families with the youngest in particular, dispensing cheer where he could. Allystaire saw him pressing something from one of his huge, creased palms into the hands of a child more than once.

  It’s going to take more than boiled sugars, Allystaire thought to himself. As he stood he saw Torvul turn and fix a glare on him, then go back to moving among the people and talking quietly to them in his low rumbling bass.

  Allystaire pushed himself to his feet. He expected to tip over and lose consciousness before reaching his full height. He expected to soon feel the sudden accumulation of the exertions of his muscles all in one moment.

  Still the song, though faint, rushed through him.

  People
made a path for him as he walked. The candles and lamps they held and huddled over gleamed brightly back at them when his armor caught their reflection. His perfect, unblemished armor. The armor that should be covered in the wear of battle and spattered with mud, and worse. Instead it shone like purest hammered silver.

  Their eyes followed him whenever he moved, and he could feel them like a weight. He felt them as he walked to the prisoners, who were shoved against one section of wall.

  Chaddin was dragging a prisoner forward. It took Allystaire a moment to realize that the struggling figure was, beneath a bulky and bloodied gambeson, a woman. There was a long stain along her left arm, held awkwardly against her body. Her eyes were downcast and the resistance she offered to Chaddin’s pulling was token, at best.

  “Take your hands off of her, Chaddin. She is no more threat.”

  “I tire of your orders, Allystaire,” Chaddin shot back. “We need to find out what she knows.”

  Allystaire fixed Chaddin with a hard stare for a moment. “If I need to ask her any questions, I will,” he finally said. “For now, take your hands off of her, and try to get some rest. This battle is not done.”

  Chaddin stepped away, but not without a last shove that sent Landen sprawling against the stone wall. Allystaire took a half step towards the pretender, half-snarling. “It is not worthy of the Goddess’s Temple that a wounded, defeated enemy should be roughly used, especially by one who claims the rights of rank and rule.”

  “And once again I say I tire of your orders,” Chaddin snapped back. “I’m not interested in your Goddess. My father was beaten, and had we pursued him we could have won. Instead we have retreated in here, and for what? To nurse the enemy wounded back to health? They should’ve been seen to on the field and left to rot.”

  His last comment sent a general murmur of assent through his remaining men, and, Allystaire thought, some quizzical looks among the village folk. Allystaire waited for the room to quiet down.

  “You are a fool. First, he was not beaten. He will not be beaten till he is dead.” Allystaire flicked his eyes towards Landen and said, “I am sorry to say that in front of you, but it is the truth.” Then he looked back to Chaddin. “Second, had we pursued him, his numbers would have told the tale sooner rather than later. His foot would have organized and bought time for the horse to do the same, and we would all be dead. Third, and fourth, why do we not leave the enemy to die upon the field?”