Willard drew so forcefully on his ragleaf that the coal crackled at Harric’s ear, returning his attention to the useless messages.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Harric said.
“Don’t be. Damned smart of you to send those messages in the first place.”
At the sound of the knight’s voice, the murmurs fell silent, and all eyes fell on Willard. Everything had changed, and everyone knew it. Without the aid of the Blue Order, the fort would inevitably fall. It was just a matter of time. Yet some would have to hold it against Bannus for as long as possible while Willard escaped with Brolli. The guardsmen did not know the particulars of their mission, but they knew that the fate of the kingdom very likely depended on Brolli recommending a peace treaty to his people, and if anything happened to him, the result might well be a war that would weaken the kingdom and its resistance to the return of the Old Ones. And if the Old Ones took the throne, they knew many more would die and all would suffer.
But staying at the fort would be suicide, and everyone knew that, too.
Willard sighed a cloud of ragleaf through his nose into his enormous mustachio, and the whiskers fumed as he took another crackling pull. The guardsmen shifted on their feet, and in the smoky candlelight, the white edges of their eyes flashed and flicked as they exchanged glances.
“Last night, you men displayed a bravery other men of this age can only dream of,” said Willard. The old knight’s eyes still stared through the table, but his voice resonated with pride and conviction. “That kind of bravery is only sung in the ballads of the Cleansing.”
He raised his eyes and stood to his full height, towering above them like a pillar in the hall. In full armor, it wasn’t hard to imagine the immortal Willard of legend—huge, strong, and steel sharp. “There is no greater test to a man than defying an Old One,” he said, scanning their faces, “unless it be to defy the worst of the Old Ones, Sir Bannus. And you’ve done that. Not since the days of our Queen’s grandfather during the Cleansing could a monarch claim such subjects as you. And no knight living today can claim what you did last night.”
As he spoke, his gray eyes met the gaze of each guard in the room. Harric watched as each man returned the look and in turn seemed to grow taller, too, as if meeting Willard’s eye lent them power. In the faces of the guards, Harric thought he saw the same awe he felt to be so near the hero who had once driven Bannus from the land.
“Yet you’d be fools if you weren’t terrified,” said Willard. “In ten lifetimes, I never met a foe more worthy of terror than Bannus. He is the very monster you know from the ballads, and nothing a balladeer could devise could be worse than the truth. He has infused Krato’s Blood in his veins for so long that there is nothing left of his humanity.”
“So what do we do now?” said a middle-aged guard with blinking eyes and a bulbous drinker’s nose. His voice sounded reedy and tremulous after Willard’s baritone. “We thought the Blue Order was coming to rescue us. They ain’t. So we can go with you, can’t we?”
Lane muttered, “We wish,” but Captain Gren cut in before others could voice their fears.
“Abandon the fort?” said Gren, glaring at Lane. “After last night’s stand, you’d let Bannus take it without a fight? No. We stay and guard Sir Willard’s back.”
The men traded silent glances, and the middle-aged guard stared down at his hands. “No point in bravery if you’re dead,” he said. “And I ain’t the only one as thinks so.”
“And you’re right about that,” said Willard. “Nor would I ask you to die in a hopeless stand. It would be a waste of rare men. What I ask is that you maintain the appearance of resistance, so Bannus must spend the time necessary to clear the road for his men to prepare a proper siege attack, which ought to take days. But when night falls on a day in which his work is nearly done, that night, you must deprive him of his prize and slip away. Flee into the wilderness, and then luck be with you. That stratagem will provide us with precious days of head start.”
“To take the ambassador to the Queen,” said Farley, who listened intently to every word.
Willard nodded, acknowledging the boy, but not correcting his assumption. “Much depends upon the Queen’s discussions with the ambassador. And your bravery will make the peace possible.”
Harric flicked his gaze to Brolli, half expecting the Kwendi to correct Willard’s omission and tell the men their true objective—indeed, their opposite objective—not to take Brolli south to the Queen, but north to his people beyond the Godswall. For Brolli had already met with the Queen, and now it remained only for him to present Her Majesty’s proposal of a treaty to his people.
To Harric’s surprise and relief, the Kwendi let it stand. Perhaps Brolli reasoned, as Harric did (and presumably Willard), that the garrison was no less safe believing Willard and company were headed south, whereas Willard and Brolli were much safer if they did. For if any of the garrison should desert or be captured, they could only pass false information to Bannus.
“Big Thom and Glenn, you’re on wall duty,” Gren said. “I want all spitfires loaded and resting at ten-foot intervals upon the battlements, and shots fired at anything that moves around that rubble pile. Weaver and Moy, set up a temporary stable on the road up the pass, well out of sight and sound of the wall. Barwell can help muffle their hooves with cone sacks, and walk them up. We’ll keep the horses there until the day we flee.”
As Gren allotted duties, Willard watched with approval. “You few stood fast when you saw that monster howling at your gate,” he said. “And now, by holding it again, you preserve all that my brothers in the Blue Order worked for in the Cleansing; you preserve your queen and country, and you preserve your loved ones and their freedom.” Willard raised his fist before his chest in a Blue Order salute, and the men copied it, eyes gleaming. He held the salute for several long heartbeats, then released it.
“To your duties,” said Gren. “At breakfast, I assign tasks for the rest.”
The gathering broke, but the spell of purpose and inspiration did not. Harric could see it in the eyes of the guards. Once worried about their survival, they now saw themselves as part of something greater than all of them. He wouldn’t be surprised if some volunteered to stay and fight to the end. Harric himself looked at Willard with new appreciation. It was hard to imagine this was the same broken-down ex-immortal, ex-champion with whom he’d endured a month of suffering and flight. And it made him feel petty and childish for his judgments back then.
When the garrison had dispersed, Brolli regarded Willard with an expression of curiosity. “Who is this man who spoke just now?”
Willard gave him a wry smile as he puffed his neglected roll of ragleaf back to life. “My best comes out in crisis. Now we must pack and depart. Harric, Caris, prepare the horses.”
“You forget, I think,” said Brolli, a light of mischief in his eye, “the priest Kogan still sleeps.”
Willard didn’t roll his eyes, but they drifted briefly upward. “He celebrated long enough to sleep a week. We’ll leave him here with the men of the fort. It will be excellent for their morale.”
“I must object, Sir Willard,” said Brolli. “It is because he helped us that he is hunted.”
Willard frowned. “You realize what a burden he is? He hates magic more than anyone in Arkendia, Brolli. If you think I frown on magic, consider that it’s his religion to hate it. He can barely look on you without condemning you along with your people. The good father sees no gray.”
“That changes nothing of our responsibility.”
Willard sighed. “If we can wake him, and he so chooses, he may come. But I’ll ask he remain at the fort as a boon to the men here. They have beer, which should help to that end. But if he insists on joining us, so be it. Yet I predict trouble. Harric, see if you can wake the father. Tell him to find me. Then help Caris with the horses.”
Harric nodded, but his mind was only half on the knight’s orders; Caris still hadn’t looked his direction all morning, and th
at boded ill. At the very least, it meant a laborious conversation in his future.
“Girl, I’ll need you to prepare Molly’s breakfast,” Willard said. “Hit the kitchens. Sergeant Lane slaughtered a goat and has the blood and bone meal ready.”
As Caris set out for the kitchens, Harric stepped beside her and gave her a warm smile. “Morning, Caris.”
She stopped short as if startled out of deep thought. Without looking up, she pressed her lips together in a kind of grimace and stalked past. She might have tried to hide it, but she was tugging at the ring again.
Moons, he hated that ring. It made her so miserable.
Knowing Willard would bark if he followed her without first gathering his things or waking Father Kogan, he suppressed the urge, and let her go. Instead, he hurried into his quarters, grabbed up his saddlebags, and jogged off to find the priest.
*
He found the giant man flopped in the remains of the dove tower, snoring like a hedge boar and wallowing in ash. Several timbers of the collapsed roof smoldered beside him. Perhaps there had still been a cozy fire there when he’d chosen that spot to sleep. Unfortunately, the heavy smell of smoke did little to mask the stink of the priest’s odor. Had the man never bathed? He certainly hadn’t washed the woolen rugs of his smothercoat, which reeked of mildew like something buried under a haystack over winter.
“Get up, Father Kogan.” Harric kicked at the upturned soles of the huge man’s boots. No response. The snoring continued. He kicked again, harder. “Father!”
“You want to use this, Master Harric?”
Harric looked to see Farley standing behind him with the bucket of water the watchmen used for drinking. Harric grinned and beckoned Farley over. “Go ahead,” he told the boy, “but be quick.”
Farley’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. He set the bucket at his feet and scampered back a few paces. “No, sir. You do it.”
“Then get ready to run,” Harric said, as he retrieved the bucket and walked back to the snoring giant, “because I’m going to blame it on you.”
“You wouldn’t!” Farley squeaked with delight.
“No. I wouldn’t. But I’m going to run, too, and I don’t want you in my way.”
Harric made sure his escape route was free of impediments, then sloshed the water in the priest’s hairy face.
Kogan’s roar of indignation must have been heard across the valley. By the time he cleared his eyes of water and matted hair, Harric and Farley stood twenty paces hence, poised to retreat farther, if necessary.
“Sir Willard sent us to wake you,” Harric called. “The knight is leaving, and wishes for you to see him in the mess hall. You may join him on the road, if you wish, or remain here with the beer kegs.”
The priest spat water and strings of beard from his mouth. Squinting against the predawn gray as if it were noonday sun, he sputtered, “If daylight didn’t pound my brains, I’d wring your skinny necks!”
“Don’t blame the messengers, father,” said Farley. “Blame Willard. But hurry, ’cause he’s leaving.”
Harric lingered at the top of the stairwell and watched the priest rub his temples. Farley, who had scampered down the stairs, climbed back up and peered from around Harric.
As the priest sat up, water dribbled from his beard into his lap. His small brown eyes found Harric and Farley.
“Said I’d come, didn’t I?” he growled.
“You missed a show of Willard’s hex this morning,” said Harric.
The priest’s brow furrowed.
“Hit a green lord, too,” said Farley. “Made him act the fool, and Bannus bopped him.”
Kogan’s gaze moved from the boy to Harric as if for confirmation. Harric nodded, and Kogan said, “Anyone else touched?”
“No one on the wall,” said Harric.
“Got lucky, then. I seen that hex do worse. Might’ve had you throwing yourselfs from the wall, thinking to challenge Bannus or join him.” Kogan looked up at the east ridge, where the sun paled the sky with approaching dawn. “Till the sun crests the hill, keep clear of Willard. He don’t mean it, but he can’t control it. Probably won’t strike again.”
“How do you know?” said Harric. “When does it strike? It struck me once, the first time I met him, back in the market at Gallows Ferry. But I wasn’t bothering him, just talking.”
Kogan made an effort at smoothing the great tangles of hair and braids away from his forehead, without success. “Mostly hits when he’s in danger.”
“Or pretty ladies,” said Farley. “It’s always pretty ladies in the ballads.”
A silent laugh shook Kogan’s shoulder and belly. “And what pretty lady ain’t danger? Just stay away if you can,” he said. “Steer clear till sunup.”
The Blood Tooth is singular to adult Phyros mares. Stallions do not have them. Composed of ivory and shaped much like a boar’s tusk, the tooth hangs from the upper jaw on either the left or the right side, like a single fang. In combat, it is a formidable weapon, but its primary purpose appears to be the blooding of their offspring.
—From Notes on the Sacred Isle, Sir Gregan Lamour
8
Tainted Blood & Magic
Caris found Lane at the butcher’s block in the middle of the kitchen, quartering a freshly skinned goat. The sergeant glanced up when she entered, and his lip curled in distaste. He slammed the cleaver down, severing a joint. “Buckets on the floor.” He gestured with the bloody blade to a pair of wooden buckets beside the door, and resumed parting joints and sliding the bits aside—chunk! scrape—and scowling between blows.
Caris dropped the sack of oats from her shoulder to the table, and set the buckets beside it to mix the meal. The stink of warm blood and bone meal filled her nostrils.
“Shame to feed a holy Phyros on the blood of goats.” Lane spat in the straw. “Some would say sacrilege.” Caris emptied the oats into the bloody meal. “Rightly done, it’s the blood of virgins and bastards.”
Caris dropped the empty sacking on the table and picked up a heavy rolling pin to mash in the oats. “You volunteering?” She tried to keep a straight face, but grinned in spite of herself. She was never the one with a verbal riposte, but that was a good one, and Harric would be proud.
Lane slammed the cleaver into the block, eyes smoldering, and Caris put her hands on her hips to look down at him from at least a head taller. She let her gaze travel down his pudgy, unarmored body and back up, and raised an eyebrow. It was a look her brother had taught her to use, anticipating the many fools who would question her legitimacy and challenge her to duels. The look had saved several men’s lives, and looked as if it would save another now.
Sure enough, Lane threw down his rag and apron and—seething—stormed past her and out of the kitchen.
She watched him out the door, then moved the buckets so she could work with an eye on the entrance. That man was not to be trusted. He’d as much as announced his allegiance to Bannus and the Old Ways with his “bastards and virgins” comment, and if he grew desperate enough, he might act on it. After loosening her sword and dirks in their scabbards, she set to stirring the oats into the mash until the grain, blood, and meal were thoroughly mixed in a heavy mixture that—minus the bone and with the addition of sage and rosemary—wasn’t unlike the stuffing for Mother Ganner’s bladder sausage.
Relieved to leave the stifling confines of the fort, she emerged into the courtyard beneath open sky, and hiked toward the stables. The stone walls and cobbles still slept in the shadow of the pass, but the river chattered brightly in its channel on the far side of the courtyard. The chill breath of the river kissed her cheeks, and in it she caught the liberated scents of sap and wildflowers from summer meadows beyond the pass.
She smiled, imagining the delight of Rag and the other horses when they reached those meadows that afternoon after the cramped stalls and dry fare of the outpost.
A shout of alarm from the stable broke her thoughts. She looked up in time to see a groom spill
out the central door and into the yard, nearly falling on his face in his haste to exit. Dropping the buckets, she hurried to him, ten explanations swarming her head, none of them good. “What is it?”
“It’s broke out!” he spluttered. “Blood everywhere!”
Caris’s heart stuttered. “Molly? She’s out—”
“Nearly took off my head!”
Hurrying past him, she shouted, “Get Sir Willard!” and sent her horse-senses before her into the stables, dreading what she’d find. If Willard had forgotten to put Molly in her chains… But she sensed the other horses safe—if upset—in the east stalls of the stable. At least, Rag and Idgit and Snapper were there…but Molly’s foal, Holly, was not with them. To her alarm, Caris sensed Holly in the west arm—her mother Molly’s arm—her young mind radiating curiosity.
Gods leave us, she’s going to get herself killed.
Cursing, Caris entered and turned up the west wing.
Twilight still cloaked the stable, but it didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust, and when they did, the scene sent a stab of terror through her gut. Molly had indeed escaped her stall, and though the heavy four-point chain hobbles still restricted her movement, she now loomed over her foal, violet blood frothing from her mouth. The hood of Holly’s tournament caparison had been ripped from her head to expose her wine-black coat and mane. It now hung about her chest like a foolish neckerchief, and blood smeared its fabric.
“Holly!” Caris’s stomach clenched as she ran to her.
Inexplicably, the filly gamboled and pranced just outside Molly’s reach, as if trying to entice her monstrous mother to play. If it weren’t for the chains on her mother’s hooves, Holly would already be dead on the floor, for though she was Molly’s offspring, she had not yet come into her immortality, and a blow from her dam would kill her. Visions of dogs and bears eating their offspring flashed in Caris’s mind as she grabbed Holly’s halter and hauled her away.
“Gods take it, get away from her!”
The Jack of Ruin Page 6
