Sword of the Bright Lady

by M. C. Planck

  Wincing in pain, wondering how much heat the fermenting manure was generating, thinking about chemistry and swords, he was suddenly paralyzed by an epiphany.

  In the valley of the swordsman, the musketeer is king.

  “Are you coming?” Karl called from the barn doors.

  “Wait,” Christopher said, walking to the mound. Its stench could not hold him off; unthinking, he plunged an arm into the black mass, digging deeply, drawing out material from the depth. His reward was a handful of warm gooey filth, speckled with white.

  “What the Dark is wrong with you?” Karl demanded from over his shoulder.

  “It’s already crystallizing,” Christopher said. “Don’t you see?” He offered his treasure, but Karl stepped back, his hand on his sword.

  Christopher finally realized what he looked like.

  “Sorry. I just . . .” He struggled to think of an explanation. “This is valuable. No, really.” His hand, now covered in wet filth, was becoming uncomfortably cold. “I need to wash up.”

  Silently Karl pointed to the barn, where a dour, narrow peasant watched in alarm. It was the same man Hobilar had called over before the duel.

  “Sorry,” Christopher said, walking into the barn with his arm held out at a right angle.

  “There’s a shovel on the wall and a fresh batch in the stalls, if your lordship desires.” The peasant’s tone questioned Christopher’s sanity even while the words were careful to give no offense.

  “Actually, I only want the old stuff.” Christopher found a barrel of water and plunged his arm into it. With a yelp, he jerked it back out. The water was near freezing.

  “Goodman Fenwick owns the stable and would be happy to assist you, Pater,” Karl said. “For a reasonable fee.” The last was directed pointedly at Fenwick.

  “We live to serve,” the stable-master muttered while picking up a huge horsehair brush. Then he grabbed Christopher’s arm, shoved it back into the barrel, and began to scrub.

  The pain was intense, and he struggled to remain calm while Fenwick worked. How could he be gutted like a fish and not even flinch, but this was enough to drive him to the edge of murder? When his arm came out of the barrel, pink and clean, he saw there was no physical damage. The tael only healed when necessary.

  Fenwick finished drying his hands on a square of old horse blanket and tossed the cloth to Christopher.

  “Understand,” Fenwick said, “he is a destrier. He cannot live on mere hay, like a farmer’s nag. He must be fed barley and oats as well.”

  After a moment Christopher realized the stable-master was talking about the horse.

  “How much does that cost?”

  The stable-master struggled with an answer, fairly obviously trying to decide whether to charge the local rate or the rich out-of-towner rate. He was spared by Karl’s reappearance with a basket of tiny, dry apples.

  “Remind the horse of why he is your friend,” Karl suggested, handing him several. Fenwick silently took the basket from Karl and returned it to its hiding place, while Christopher went to the end of the barn where the great chestnut stallion hung his head over the stall door.

  Christopher fed the apples to the horse, only slightly worried about losing a finger. He scratched the long neck behind the ears, trying to bond with the stately animal. He wished he could talk to it, like Faren had.

  “I don’t know his name,” he said. “I didn’t think to ask.”

  “His name is Royal,” Fenwick answered, “and a fine steed he is. Hobilar’s pa bred the best and even succeeded in drumming some horse-sense into his boy. This was one of the last foals Hobilar’s herd turned before he sold them all off.”

  “Why did he sell them?” Christopher asked.

  “To buy his rank,” Karl explained from the next stall over, where he was treating his own horse to one of the apples.

  “Aye,” Fenwick agreed, turning dour again. “He did his time at war and came back, but not to warm his father’s heart and take up the family trade. When old Hobilar died, the boy sold off the stock so he could play at being a lord. He kept the best one for himself, though.”

  “Royal,” Christopher said, and the horse nudged him.

  “He’s well taught and in good shape. Hobilar took right good care of him, at least,” Fenwick said begrudgingly.

  Christopher felt a tinge of remorse. This was one thing Hobilar had loved, obviously. How evil can a man be if he loves something outside of himself? On the other hand, Hitler had loved his dog Blondi. If Hobilar had treated people with the same respect he’d shown his horse, he wouldn’t be . . .

  “Where is Hobilar, anyway?”

  “Huddling under a blanket in the coach. The Cardinal is taking him to Kingsrock,” Karl said. “He still hopes Hobilar will atone.”

  “Astonishing that a man so wise can be so foolish,” Fenwick said.

  “Goodman Fenwick, you are in the presence of a priest of the Lady.”

  Fenwick reacted to Karl’s warning with nothing more than an annoyed shrug. Christopher felt a great surge of relief. The Church he had joined demanded respect but did not inspire fear.

  “Forgive my rustic humor, Pater,” Fenwick said. “Is the quality of my stable acceptable?”

  “It will do,” Karl said. “But mind you, the Pater has other duties. You’ll care for his horse when he cannot. You’ll give it company and plenty of time in the yard.”

  “No problem there,” Fenwick agreed. “My boys are entranced by the beast.” Although a dozen horses lived in the barn, not even the huge dray horses could compete with the stallion for sheer presence. “For hay, five copper a day is considered fair, Pater.” Karl nodded. “For the barley and oats your great steed expects with his hay, say five copper a day again.” Karl remained still, waiting for more. “Since you’re buying the grain from my barn, I’ll put in the stable, a paddock, and the loving care of my boys for nought.” Fenwick looked sourer with every word, but Karl was finally satisfied.

  This was a negotiation that Christopher was inadequate to contribute to, since he did not know the local currency or even how much he was being paid. “Can I afford that on a priest’s salary?”

  “Yes,” Karl said, “although you will not eat much better than the horse.”

  Not a promising beginning. He would need money to make guns, a lot of money. One always did.

  He almost asked how much he could sell the horse for, but he could not bring himself to do it. Although he had only a passing acquaintance with the equestrian arts, the animal felt more familiar and real than anything else he had encountered in this world. It was, at least, one thing he could relate too.

  Back in the chapel, the soldiers had stacked and sorted his booty with admiration.

  “Such fine arms will serve you well in the war,” the older one said. “If we could send all our lads out so finely dressed—”

  “Then they would be too burdened to run away,” Karl finished for him. “And they would all die, instead of only half. Plate and horse only mark a man as a target.”

  Though the younger guard was at least a decade older than Karl, he advanced his argument hesitantly. “The Pater is ranked. Surely he can stand the attention of the enemy.”

  “Aye,” Karl said. “It is what rank is for.”

  This was not the war Christopher had signed on for.

  “Hold on,” he said, “I thought I was going to be a healer.”

  Faren snorted. “You will be. Just from the front lines.”

  The chain-mail tunic that Karl had lent him was far more discreet. “How about a trade?” he said to Karl. “That junk for your chain mail.”

  Karl stared at him, flat-eyed, while the other soldiers guffawed.

  Christopher had already apologized enough for one night, so he plowed ahead.

  “I’m not joking. I don’t want it.” Never mind the constant reminder of Hobilar’s disgrace; Christopher doubted he could even walk in all that metal. “Sell it off or something, and let me buy your chain m
ail.”

  Faren was chuckling. “You twist a sharp barb, Pater. Karl ceded his mail to you the instant you stepped into the dueling ring. It was a gift, as it had to be, else Karl would have staked you in the duel and thus been subject to forfeit if you lost. And I see now,” Faren said, no longer smiling, “that you’ve played one on us as well. We can hardly claim a debt for your promotion, for the same reason.”

  “It does not release him from the draft,” Karl said defiantly.

  “No, of course not,” Christopher said, shamed. “I didn’t play anybody. I didn’t even know the rules until Karl told me.”

  “I see your point,” Karl said to Faren. “I pity the man who has him for a servant.”

  “That’s what we have gods for,” Faren said. “The nobles protect us from monsters, and the gods protect us from the noble-minded. By all means, sell it off. I would just as soon not have a White priest clanking around in plate armor.”

  “And the sword,” the younger soldier said, clearly envious. “It is from Master Sigfried’s forge in Kingsrock.”

  Hobilar’s sword was the same style as Karl’s, distinguished only by the brass crossguard instead of iron. Christopher leapt at the chance to repay some of his debt. “Karl, you take it. I already have a sword.”

  Karl hesitated. “I cannot accept arms from your hand, Pater. I am sworn to Krellyan’s service. I do not want to create the image of a conflict of loyalty.” It was obvious he wanted the sword, though. It was an excellent blade, made of even better steel than Christopher’s katana.

  “It’s a gift, Karl,” Christopher said. “Like the one you gave me.”

  Faren grunted in appreciation. “At least his cleverness runs both ways. True enough, Karl, you gave a gift without expectation of recompense. The Pater can gift you likewise.”

  In the most awkward movement Christopher had yet seen out of the guarded young man, Karl took Hobilar’s sword and sheathed it. He handed his previous blade to the older of the guards, who examined it appraisingly before placing it in his sheath and passing his down to the younger, who in turn replaced his own.

  Faren raised Hobilar’s purse and eyed it critically. “This should cover your additional expenses, Sven, until Pater Christopher can draw on his account.” He threw the leather pouch to the old man, who promptly handed it off to Helga.

  “I have an account?” Christopher said.

  “You do now,” Faren answered. “The ransom for a first rank is three hundred and twenty gold, which we owe you for the miserable soul of that wretched failure of a knight.” Christopher marveled at the exactness of the price, even though he didn’t know what the numbers meant.

  Faren had more instructions for Christopher. “You’re subject to the rules of formal society now. In Church lands you need to show cause to force a duel, so you aren’t completely exposed, yet I do not think we should put your tact and discretion to the test. In the village you probably won’t meet any gentry to offend, so you’ll stay here until you report for the draft. Pater Svengusta can finish your education.”

  Christopher was not quite ready to be abandoned. “I still need Karl to tell me the rest of the rules.”

  “Perhaps a wise investment of time,” Faren said. “If you are willing, Goodman, I think myself and the guards adequate to contain our disarmed prisoner.”

  “I’ll stay on for a few days,” Karl said. “My business in town would profit from an absence.” He turned to face Christopher. “Your villagers will want to celebrate. Let us join them to raise a pint to the Lord of Luck. The day is done, we’re still alive, and there’s a warm fire and cold beer. The god deserves his due.”

  If Christopher had been paying, he was certain he wouldn’t have drunk so much. But the tavern crowd found it in their hearts to toast their champion and would have none of his money. Which he still didn’t have, he reflected drunkenly.

  “I need to get some money,” he whispered loudly to Karl as the three men staggered back to the chapel. Karl wasn’t nearly as inebriated, despite having consumed twice as much, though he was still heavily impaired. Christopher was relieved to see that no cruelty lay under the man’s ice. If anything, Karl threatened to turn maudlin.

  “Don’t we all,” Karl muttered. Then he stopped just outside the chapel to relieve himself, leaving Christopher to hold up the semiconscious Svengusta alone.

  “What’s that yer doing, boy?” the old man slurred.

  “Returning a shadow of the favor—” Karl stopped to catch his breath. “—the gods of war have showered upon me.” Without his characteristic flatness, it wasn’t funny.

  “Let me show you how it’s done,” Svengusta said, and joined him against the chapel wall.

  “You people are outrageous,” Christopher said.

  Svengusta yawned. “What’s that, boy?”

  Christopher realized he’d spoken in English. The language problem seemed insurmountable, so he went on into the chapel. The others eventually followed him into the main hall, where the flickering chandeliers reflected off the booty piled under the stern gaze of the frieze above the fireplace. The sight chilled Christopher, but Svengusta looked at the wooden god and chuckled.

  “Been a while since he’s seen that,” the old man mumbled, dropped his winter cloak absently on the floor, and went into the living quarters.

  “At least it’s one of ours,” Karl said, and followed.

  Left to the last, Christopher couldn’t think of anything clever to say.

  Helga was still up, sewing by her light-stone. Svengusta fell into bed and was snoring within seconds. Christopher was struggling to get into his top bunk when he realized Karl was standing in the doorway, looking at him, waiting for something.

  He looked around to see what Karl wanted, until his foggy brain kicked in. He wasn’t that drunk.

  “She doesn’t belong to me,” Christopher said.

  Karl grinned—or tried to, but it came out as a leer—and shut the door. Christopher undressed and crawled into his bunk and tried to ignore the muted giggles from the next room.

  The noise was not the problem. The problem was that he was still frightened of what he had done today, and of what he had been prepared to do. He needed someone to comfort him, someone to treat him the same even though everything was different now. But his bed held nothing but memories.

  “Get up, old man,” Karl said, and he didn’t mean Svengusta. Christopher blinked, rubbed his eyes and his aching temples.

  It was morning already. He got dressed, came out into the kitchen where everyone else was eating breakfast, apparently unmarked by the excesses of last night.

  Except Helga. Helga was positively glowing, a radiance that flared every time Karl spoke to her or glanced in her direction. His relief that he would not have to deal with Helga’s crush was swiftly ruined by concern. He hoped Karl would let her down easy.

  “I wish to apologize in advance, Pater. You asked me to teach you to ride,” Karl said as they walked to the stable. “If I correct you, it is only for the sake of your horse.”

  “Of course,” Christopher said. “And call me Christopher.”

  Christopher had been on the back of a horse one or two times before. The experience had little in common with riding the magnificent Royal. Especially the way Karl defined riding. Karl’s own horse, though smaller and more nimble than Royal, was barely able to keep up with the huge stallion. “Keep up” being the operative phrase, since under no circumstance would Royal allow the other horse to pull ahead of him.

  They saw a lot of the surrounding countryside, or at least Karl and the horses did. Once they got to trotting, Christopher mostly saw shooting stars of pain from his spine. When Karl finally decided that any more saddle time would cause Christopher’s ineptitude to risk injuring the horse, they turned back to the stable. Christopher was a limp rag that had been through the wringer too many times; Karl was unsparing, and left him to unsaddle and brush down the warhorse under the supervision of a stable boy. The boy was merciless i
n the way all ten-year-old experts are with incompetent adults.

  Christopher waddled back to the chapel, grateful that the ground was no longer rising up to kick him in the butt with every step. Svengusta had a fire going in the main hall, with two hard benches pulled up. Apparently he felt religious education shouldn’t take place in a nice, comfortable kitchen while Christopher lay on Helga’s bed.

  “And don’t even think of healing those blisters yet,” the old man admonished. “You’ve got to give your skin a chance to toughen up, otherwise it will be this bad every time.”

  Svengusta skipped the abstracts and went straight to the practical aspects of healing. Magic, yes, but also mundane things like diagnosis and emergency care. The goal was to determine who needed real magical healing and how to keep them alive until they could get it. The other goal was to not waste the high rank’s time on things that weren’t important. Christopher kept failing those quizzes. Absent antibiotics and MRI scanners, every symptom seemed important to him. The lesson went on during lunch, Svengusta howling with laughter through his porridge every time he fooled Christopher with a trick case.

  Eventually Svengusta ran out of patience, and the party retired to the tavern. Christopher limited himself to one beer, partially out of a sense of poverty, although he seemed to be on Svengusta’s tab, but also because the beer was thick, sour, and stringent. He wondered if lager had been invented yet.

  He sat around the fire, listening to the men talk. Their discussions were completely unintelligible to him, being strictly limited to farming, husbandry, and weather.

  On the way back to the chapel for dinner, a shadowy figure intercepted them. Christopher could feel the electric, automatic response in Karl, as his hand slipped down to his sword hilt. They were both wearing their swords, as always. They only took them off in the chapel and in the tavern, and even then they stayed within arm’s reach. But the stalker was revealed by Svengusta’s light-stone to be the young man from the chapel, pretty Dynae’s handsome boyfriend.