The Jack of Souls

by Merlino, Stephen

  The carriage lurched into motion, trailing ladies’ laughter behind it.

  Rudy released Harric and socked him in the side of the head. White spots dashed across Harric’s vision. His knees hit the planking, hard. “I’m keeping you right here, lord-boy,” said Rudy. “You heard what His Worship said. An Old One’s coming. And I ain’t never heard of an Old One that didn’t fancy a hanging.”

  Of all in the Old Ones Sir Grippan was wildest,

  And first to be slain in the Cleansing.

  Most hated was Bannus, the vilest despoiler,

  Who fled to the Isle of Phyrosi.

  —A Verse from Oral Histories of the Cleansing, collected and recorded by Sir Martin of Bege

  6

  Hexes & Hangings

  Willard urged Molly from the beach onto the foot of the Hanging Road. In his left hand he held the ponies’ leads, so they would follow near the cliff wall, and so he could leave them in a crisis without untying them first from his saddle. The ambassador rocked in his saddle beneath his blanket, but Willard knew he was alert as a cat, the knots binding him to the saddle set to untie with a single tug in emergency. In his right hand Willard cradled Belle, the massive greatsword balanced over the front cantle of his saddle.

  “This ought to be fun.”

  Brolli chuckled. “Remind me to ask what in your language means fun.”

  Iron-shod hooves rang from the stone as they climbed.

  They were ants now, insects tickling the ankles of the mighty granite wall, tiny motes on a scratch above the water.

  “Sun has set, yes?” Brolli said. “Your night hex is with us.”

  “Yes. But that is no guarantee it will wake tonight. Can’t be sure until it gives a sign.”

  “A sign?”

  “A victim. We won’t proceed until we have one.”

  The ponies strained up the steep-cut incline of the road, pulling against their leads in Willard’s hand. Even Molly snorted with exertion. Willard halted them some sixty paces below the Sapphire, and waited. Ought to be close enough. He’d seen his hex reach men from twice as far.

  The nobleman’s company maintained their disciplined stillness, lances standing tall in the holders attached to their stirrups; Willard saw no drawn swords flashing. As he anticipated, the nobleman was not planning to attack. Not here, or now. Not yet, anyway.

  Molly tossed her head, impatient.

  “Soon, girl. We need a sign.”

  Like Kogan, Willard had a healthy fear of his hex. It struck out randomly, often at him, or his friends. But unlike Kogan, he also recognized that, in a pinch, it could be a valuable ally, for it was generally as destructive to his enemies as it was to him. Generally. That was the problem. It was unpredictable. It might not wake at all, or it might strike him, which could scuttle the whole moon-blasted thing.

  Roll the dice, old man.

  “Ever wonder why this damned hex never strikes you, ambassador?”

  “There is no hex curse among my people.” Brolli shrugged. “We are not human. Another sign of Kwendi superior, I think.”

  Willard heard the humor in his voice, and smiled. “As far as hexes are concerned, it’d be damned hard to argue with that.”

  The Sapphire stirred. He signaled his men with a wave of his hand, turned his horse, and rode away northward, with his men in tow.

  “Ah, they leave,” said Brolli. “Is the hex not waking?”

  Willard said nothing, his gaze still fixed on the place below the gallows where the Sapphire had been. He counted thirty heartbeats, and was on the brink of giving up when a trio of riders appeared again beside the gallows: a knight and squire, both armored, accompanied by a groom.

  Willard smiled. “A silver says these men bring me my sign.”

  “Make it two silvers, and you have a bet.”

  “Done.” Willard dropped the ponies’ leads, and urged Molly into a slow walk up the steep shelf. “Wait here. It could be a trap. In any case, things could get messy, so stay alert. And remember what I said about my people’s opinion of magic—even so-called good magic—as there may be other witnesses up by the gallows.”

  “I remember. I use it only if dying.”

  As Willard neared the waiting trio, the harsh light of silhouette diminished, and he was able to ascertain the knight’s armor was enameled in an azure blue, a color signifying one of the highest blood ranks. Though not quite as high as Sapphire, Azure was considered “royal” blood by Westies, blood descended from an ancient prince of that isle. The knight wore an open-faced helm. Deep-set black eyes flashed above a neat black beard and fierce grin.

  Willard did not hang back to parley, though the man held up his hand for it. Instead, he brought Molly almost nose to nose with the waiting riders. The trio’s horses stepped back and shied sideways in dismay, giving Willard time to glance around the corner to verify the Sapphire had not waited there in ambush; he found the lord already halfway across the mile of Hanging Road to Gallows Ferry. From his position he could see the entire expanse, including the sun-bleached buildings of the outpost, but there was no sign of Kogan’s caravan. The priest had made good time and already entered the settlement, so he’d be well past it by the time the Sapphire arrived.

  That was good. Kogan would be in position to execute their plan. Whether or not he has the brains to pull it off is something else entirely.

  “The famous Sir Willard,” sneered the Azure, who had finally got his horse under control. “So it is true after all. You’re mortal, like the rest of us. I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my eyes. You truly have gone mad.”

  Willard raised his visor, and spat. “Think you can defeat me, then. Is that it?” He nudged Molly so she danced a step closer, then reined her back in a way that always made her toss her head and roar. She did not disappoint, howling out a challenge that nearly blew the mane back on Sir Azure’s stallion. “Of course, Molly’s as immortal as ever,” Willard said. “But you knew that.”

  The knight snorted. “Molly won’t give a damn when you’re gone.” He hauled a heavy crossbow from his side and aimed it at Willard’s chest, the armor-piercing bodkin glinting dully. “She’ll probably eat your sorry carcass.”

  His squire and groom produced short-stocked spitfires with flint-wheel triggers and flaring mouths like trumpets. The squire wore a leather blast mask in the shape of a hawk’s head. The groom wore none, and bore the pockmarks of prior misfires on his cheeks.

  “At this range you haven’t a chance.” The Azure’s grin showed the purple teeth of a blood-painter. “One bolt, down you go. Molly walks away, and I take the Queen’s wedding ring from your stinking pockets. Or you can hand them over now, and I let you go back to your ferry.”

  “Ah! So you know of the ring, do you? And you know their power. I took you for a glory hunter, looking to slay the great Sir Willard, but now I see now your aim is much higher. You wish to use the ring to force the Queen to marry you! You wish to be king! I think your Sapphire friend will not like that you came back here to take them for yourself.”

  “Tut! He is a fool. He will wait for orders. But I, too, am a prince. I, too, of royal lineage.”

  “Not as high as sapphire.”

  “High enough! Hand them over.”

  Willard shrugged. “You’re too late. They could cause quite a lot of mischief in the wrong hands, you know. I flung them in the river as we crossed.”

  The man’s eyes faltered. “You lie.”

  “But why stop with the ring?” Willard continued. “Why not take the ambassador too? That’s what your sapphire friend intends, is it not? If he can, he will take the ring, and attempt to force the Queen to marry. But that plan is flawed, if the ring is lost or destroyed. Surely he also plans to capture or slay the Kwendi ambassador in order to provoke the Kwendi into war. A war in the north would drain the Queen’s armies from her position in the south, and set the stage for your precious West to rise again and seize the throne.”

  The Azure’s
lip curled. He spoke through grinding teeth. “I give you to the count of five to save me the trouble of searching your corpse. If you do not hand them over, I shall kill you both and take the ring. One…”

  The squire and groom shifted in their saddles, grinning like idiots, their spitfires held steady on Willard. All three of them had the signs of the hex upon them. Rash fearlessness. Wild eyes. Impetuous speech. The hex seemed to take all inhibition from its victims, unleashing their inmost selves in all their purest follies. Like Tam, Gods leave him. Squire Tam had charged ten knights, alone, in some hex-addled heroic sortie, before Willard had noticed the signs of hex in his eyes. How many squires, friends, allies had he lost that way? Much better to lose enemies like Sir Azure.

  Willard waved the count off at three. “Come, Sir Azure. You will have to slay me. I have no ring, and your counting is tedious. But may I not know the name of my slayer? West Isle knights once had courtesy: they said please and thank you as they raped our dogs and children.”

  “Enough! Four, and—”

  Willard turned Molly so her massive head and neck shielded him from the bow. Without a perceptible signal from Willard, Molly lunged, seizing the man’s face in her teeth and shaking him like a dog shakes a rat. His armored legs flailed into the face of the squire, whose horse shied sideways into the groom. The squire launched a sizzling spitfire wad, but his aim was wide, and the wad screamed past Willard’s ear, peppering his armor with flaming resin. Sir Azure’s scream cut short with a wrenching crack of his neck. The squire turned his horse down the harbor road and spurred it for Brolli, sword in hand, and groom in hot pursuit.

  “Brolli, they come!” Willard shouted.

  Molly dropped Sir Azure, and leapt in pursuit, too far behind to protect the ambassador, but near enough to lend aid once engaged.

  The horsemen galloped down the incline, as if they’d bowl Brolli and the ponies over the precipice. Brolli had dismounted, and Willard glimpsed him loping up the incline in the bizarre knuckle-walking manner of his people. One of his long arms windmilled, launching a globe of witch-silver the size of an apple. The globe struck the stone at the foot of the squire’s charging stallion and erupted in fire and smoke. It was as if the apple had set off a boiler explosion, pitching the squire and his horse together into the void.

  The groom’s mount scrambled to a halt in the smoke, rearing and throwing the groom to the road, where Willard drew Molly to a sparking, skidding stop. The boy’s spitfire spun from his fingers and cracked on the stone, where it discharged, spraying its flaming resin on the cliff wall. Molly reared, pawing the air. One hoof bore a spot of blazing resin, and she came down with it on the chest of the scrambling groom with an audible crunch. Dancing sideways, she stamped in a vain attempt to snuff the fire.

  “Brolli!” Willard shouted. “Are you all right?”

  Brolli emerged from the dissipating smoke, daylids pushed up on his forehead like dark-glassed tooler’s goggles. His owlish gold eyes shone. “That felt good.” He rested on his knuckles and flashed Willard a wide grin with thick and prominent canines. “My aim is not so fine, though. I must practice.”

  Willard grunted, relieved. “Admirable aim from my perspective.” Swinging a leg over his saddle, Willard dropped from Molly’s stirrup, a move that sent nails of pain through his feet and spine.

  A quick examination of Molly’s chest and legs revealed no other resin burns. The spot on her hoof had burned out, leaving a crater of blackened keratin.

  “Blasted spitfires,” Willard muttered. “Damned messy.”

  “Not so clean as my magic, yes?” Brolli flashed the wolfish smile.

  Willard peered back up the road to the gallows, where, sure enough, several heads peeked from a makeshift cabin built into the foundations. “Let me remind you that all magic is dirty to my people, Ambassador. Now mount up and get that blanket on, if you please. Probably too late, but it can’t hurt.” He hauled himself into his saddle with a pained grunt. “By the way, you owe me two silver.”

  Brolli grinned. “Your hex struck out at these men, yes?”

  “Oh, yes.” In the harbor below, Willard saw the squire’s horse standing on the beach beside the ferry, dripping and trembling, its saddle sideways. The squire would have drowned in his armor. The groom’s horse had fled back down the road to the landing; it now trotted out on the beach to join its stablemate.

  Brolli cocked his head to one side, brow furrowed. “How did you acquire this hex?”

  “You make it sound like I bought it at market. No idea how it came to me, or why. It first appeared some ten years ago, and soon after it ended my career. Queen banished me from court. Had to. You can imagine the havoc it made there.”

  Brolli nodded. “It is sad. I am sorry.”

  Willard grunted, and took up the leads of the ponies. When Brolli returned the blanket to his head, Willard led the ponies huffing and blowing up the remainder of the incline. When he reached the gallows and could glimpse the road across the cliff face, he paused to let them rest.

  The Sapphire had stopped his company short of Gallows Ferry. Some in his company pointed to Sir Azure’s riderless stallion, which trotted up the road behind them. As Willard watched, several grooms and squires rode back to intercept him.

  Willard smiled wearily. Your numbers dwindle, Sir Sapphire. How you must wonder what just happened.

  Willard removed his helmet and thumbed the sweat from his eyes. Though the sun had set, its heat still radiated from the granite all around him as if it were noon.

  Something moved at the base of the gallows. A door had opened slightly in the cabin. Inside, panicked whispers.

  Willard ignored them and fastened his helmet behind his saddle. Let them look. No sense hiding his mortal skin any longer. If he fell outside Gallows Ferry, at least Anna would hear that his skin had been of ordinary hue, that he had not drunk the Blood.

  A grimy man appeared in the door of the cabin, dressed in the coveralls of a tooler.

  He ambled out to the edge of the road with a hint of swagger to his stride and not a whiff of the usual cringing due a Phyros-rider.

  To Willard’s eye, such rash boldness spoke of hex madness, as sure as sunset in the western sky. Black Moon take it. He did not relish bystander casualties.

  The tooler advanced upon Brolli and stopped several paces away, hands on his hips, eyes prying suspiciously at the blanket. Behind the tooler, an apprentice cowered. The lad clearly hadn’t been stricken by the hex, for he trembled like a reed in a windstorm.

  “Master tooler,” Willard said, in a tone of warning that made the apprentice cringe. “Return to your cabin.”

  The tooler peered sidelong at Willard, as if noting his lack of immortal features, then turned back to Brolli. “We seen magic just now on the road,” he said, in an accusatory frontier drawl. “You bring us a witch to hang, Your Holiness?” Willard couldn’t miss the tone of irony in the title.

  “That was no magic,” Willard said, ignoring the irreverence. “It was an ordinary resin charge, like those your brother toolers used to blast the Hanging Road. It worked rather nicely as a weapon, don’t you think?”

  The tooler squinted down the road where the spitfire’s spray still smoked and smoldered on the rock. “Might be.” He returned his scrutiny to Brolli. “But a resin charge big enough to toss a horse will leave a soot patch twenty times that size.”

  Brolli moved beneath the blanket. The hole through which he peered had been trained upon the tooler. Now it shifted upward to gaze at the massive gallows with its complex of cables and pulleys, and the massive wheel blocks supporting man-sized counterweights.

  The tooler sprang back from Brolli, pointing at Brolli’s long-fingered foot, which now poked beneath the hem of the blanket. He’d inadvertently raised it when he lifted his head to view the gallows through the hole. Brolli jerked the blanket back over his foot as the tooler cried, “What in the Black Moon is you?”

  “He is a Kwendi,” Willard said, turning Molly t
oward the tooler. He did not wish to kill the unfortunate man, but he couldn’t let him harm Brolli. If the truth might calm his hex-maddened zeal, it was worth a try. The man was too far from the outpost for the knowledge to do any harm. “He is under my protection, Master Tooler, and under the express protection of the Queen. Indeed, she has licensed his magic in cases of self-protection.”

  Willard held his breath, gripping the haft of his sword and readying to prompt Molly to lunge.

  But the tooler’s face smoothed in wonder. He took a step backward, as if better to imagine the figure under the blanket, and his eyes widened in surprise. “A Kwendi…” he breathed. “Well, send me to the Black Moon itself! It’s on account of you, Master Kwendi, that these Ibergs is swarming across the water. Every one of these witches want the secret to your magic. They’re mad to get their hands on it, and it’s on account of you I’m in business. I owes you my gratitude.”

  “This gallows is yours?” Brolli said, peering up through the hole again at the complex of cables and pulleys. “To me, it is all confused ropes and trees. I do not understand it.”

  “Pity I don’t have no witch today to show you how she works,” said the tooler. Then his face lit with inspiration. “But we don’t need no witch! I can show you myself!” He grabbed his cowering apprentice, who all this time had seemed near fainting, and dragged him to the control panel at the cabin. “You watch, Master Kwendi,” he called, stringing a ready noose around his own neck. “You’ll see how she does it!”

  The apprentice gaped, petrified. “Show him how we hang ’em,” said his master, giving him a smart kick in the shins. “I said show him, you lazy runt!”

  The kicks grew fiercer until the apprentice jerked a lever and a massive counterweight plummeted from above. The tooler launched skyward, gripping rope under his chin. His eyes bulged and his legs flailed as he swung over the river like a boy on a rope swing.