by M. C. Planck
The journey back was considerably more relaxed. When Christopher mentioned it, Karl explained.
“We are riding away from the Saint. I don’t care if danger follows us now.”
Reflecting on that loyalty finally forced Christopher to ask the question that had plagued him since the night before.
“I don’t want to pry, Karl, but I don’t understand. Why did you take my side?”
“Can’t I want the draft to be armed, too? If you can truly make these weapons, then it is worth a try. Steuben was right, in his way. Alchemical tricks have been tried, and so have conventional arms. But he’s wrong because we haven’t tried your tricks.”
That wasn’t what Christopher was getting at. The man had practically sworn fealty. He tried to figure out how to ask about it delicately but failed.
“I don’t think that’s enough, Karl,” he finally said. “I don’t think you really believe my weapons will help.”
“No,” Karl admitted. “I don’t believe they’ll make a difference. I believe you believe it, but my cynicism remains untroubled by hope.”
“Then . . . why?” Christopher couldn’t understand. If Karl didn’t believe in his plan, why would he pledge his life to it?
“Because,” Karl said.
They rode in silence for a while. Karl seemed to be struggling, and when he spoke again, it was as if it were against his will.
“Because I hear it in your voice,” he said, “every time you say the word King. Or knight. Lord. Gentry. You hate them. Your eyes flinch every time they are mentioned. Even Captain Steuben, a man of unquestionable honor, made you blink.”
“I don’t hate Steuben,” Christopher protested. The man was clearly devoted to Krellyan, who trusted him implicitly. More impressive from Christopher’s point of view was that the man could completely and utterly disagree with him while remaining polite and reasonable.
“No,” Karl agreed. “You don’t hate Steuben. But you hate them .”
It was true, of course. American-born, Christopher had an automatic distaste for the aristocratic. He was proud to be from a country that had never had royalty. He couldn’t even accept the hierarchy of the Church. His respect for Krellyan and Faren did not stem from their high office or wealth but from the fact that they were honest, moral, and could literally raise the dead.
All the nobility could do was kill people, and Christopher didn’t find that terribly impressive. It certainly didn’t seem an adequate justification for feudal privilege.
“Is it that obvious?” he conceded with worry.
“No.” Karl laughed like a dog barking. “The inconceivable is as good as invisible. How is it possible that one should hate them? They protect us. They put their bodies, their lives, and sometimes their very souls between us and the monsters of the Dark. We exist by their sufferance, by their sacrifice. The reason we’re not dog food rotting in a pen until some ulvenman decides we’re soft enough to eat is because of the gentry. They fight for us, fight monsters we cannot. Their swords stand between us and degradation, despoilment, and death. How is it possible to hate them, our protectors? How can we begrudge them the prettiest girls, the choice cut of the joint, a few trinkets of gold? They have earned their right to rule, because without them there would be no human beings to rule over.”
Christopher realized he might need to revise his original judgment. On Earth, all the nobility had protected the peasantry from were other nobles. Man had no predators left by the time civilization existed. But on this world, the tigers and wolves didn’t merely compete with man; they preyed on him. And they had swords and armies, too, and magic. Maybe feudalism made sense here.
“How is it possible to hate them?” Karl said again, his bitterness uncontainable. “No one knows that you do, because to do so is against all sense.”
“But you do,” Christopher said, revelation striking belatedly.
“I do,” Karl said sullenly. “Without rhyme or reason I hate their privilege, their airs, their lofty superiority. They are entitled, but I hate them anyway.”
“Which is why you didn’t accept a promotion,” Christopher concluded sadly. “You couldn’t bear to become what you hated.”
“You see, Christopher,” Karl said, “my actions are those of a madman. For a useless anger I throw away wealth and honors, and pledge to causes that are without hope. You are just my latest insanity.”
“But I’m not crazy,” Christopher protested. “This is going to work, I know it is.”
“They all say that, don’t they?” Karl mused.
They had lunch from their saddlebags, courtesy of Krellyan’s kitchen maids, although the comparison with Helga’s efforts was quite unfair. As darkness loomed they turned in to another village tavern. Karl wasn’t hiding his identity now, and the villagers treated him with warmth and respect, even stabling the horses for free.
Karl still jammed the door shut at night, though.
They set out the next morning in a light snow, the flakes drifting down gently from the hooded sky. They trotted south by open roads, heading for Knockford, where Karl claimed Faren would be waiting for them. Passing between the ubiquitous woodlands and the farms and fields of villages and hamlets, Christopher felt at peace. With his plans moving forward and his grasp of chemistry demonstrated, he could begin to allow himself to notice the quiet beauty of a landscape unspoiled by billboards or concrete.
His nature-trail sightseeing was interrupted when he thought he saw something pop up from the snowy forest hedging the side of the road. Then he was standing on the ground, dumped from the saddle unceremoniously, and blinking while someone behind him screamed in agony, a high, shrill whine.
The snow in front of him moved; in motion, it was revealed to be a short figure, dressed in white leather, reloading a crossbow. Reflexively Christopher drew and struck in a single motion, guessing the outcome to be safe. The figure raised the crossbow as defense; the katana sliced through it, leaving splinters in its wake.
The situation now defused, Christopher turned and looked back to where Royal lay, squealing in pain. The shattered rear stood out in stark highlight, turning the ground red, but he had to ignore it because men were rushing from the sides of the road at Karl, daggers raised. Karl had changed, too, sprouting a white-feathered quarrel from his left shoulder. The young man fumbled for sword and shield while his horse panicked, stamping and rearing.
Christopher turned his attention forward again. The figure had produced a short, thin double-edged rapier and was advancing delicately. From the cold confidence in the eyes—the only part of the face not covered by white leather—Christopher knew he faced rank.
He regretted, now, his initial merciful impulse. He should have struck to kill.
A muffled voice, too guttural for the slight figure in front of him, like Bruce Wayne speaking in a lower register from Batman’s costume.
“Gift us the sword and we will gift you your life.”
A fool’s bargain, to disarm in the face of an unknown foe. He held his katana in high right guard, barked out the words of the spell that covered his sword in glowing silver light. As he had hoped, the act of casting forced the other’s hand, and the assassin charged, the thrust piercing his thigh below the protection of the chain-mail tunic.
His tael dulled the pain, so he ignored the thorn and brought his katana down in a sweeping arc. The assassin leaned back to dodge but not enough, and the point of the sharp, glowing blade raked across his stomach, sliding through leather and flesh, bright blood spurting out in its wake.
The assassin continued his backward leap uninterrupted and agilely flipped over, rolling, coming up ten feet away. Blood marked out his path, but Christopher could see the man was no longer bleeding seriously. Only tael could have closed such a wound.
For his part, Christopher felt unusually woozy, struggling to stay awake despite the adrenaline rush of the fight. He loosed his left hand from the hilt, raised the palm, preparing to cast a healing spell.
The assassin started to react but checked his lunge for some unknown reason.
Instinctively Christopher shifted to the right, narrowly avoiding a horse as it barreled past him, Karl’s sword passing over his head as the young soldier brought it forward in a charge.
Again the assassin flipped and rolled, easily escaping Karl’s charge. Christopher reversed his grip on the katana and thrust backwards, impaling the assailant running up behind him without taking his eyes off of the fencer. The man slammed into his shoulder, with the smell of sweat and bad breath, and then the body was falling, sliding off the sword. Christopher swung the katana about in a great arc, blood flinging off in sparkling droplets, returning to forward grip and high right guard.
Down the road Karl struggled to convince his horse to turn around.
The assassin looked both ways, the mounted warrior to one side and the swordsman to the other. Then he simply turned and walked away, quickly, smoothly, and with a flourish of his white cloak vanished into the snowy woods.
Karl came charging back, slid from the saddle and down to one knee. Christopher reached out and grabbed the quarrel, paused briefly to meet Karl’s eyes. Karl inhaled and gritted his teeth; Christopher yanked, ripping the white quarrel out in a spray of red, dislodging broken links of silvery mail. His spell closed the wound before the young man fainted, and suddenly Karl was on his feet again.
“There may be more,” he said, “but see to your horse.”
Christopher turned back, stepping over the still body at his feet. Farther down the road, where Karl had first been attacked, lay another body in a fan of bright red, but Christopher stopped when he got to the horse.
Royal’s back leg was broken below the knee, bone sticking out from torn flesh.
“Hold him,” he cried to Karl, who had come after him, sword in and shield held ready. Karl hesitated only a fraction of a second before dropping both weapons and falling across the horse’s head.
Christopher reached down, touched the wound, matching the horse’s trembling with his own fatigue, shock, and dread. He had to get this right. Svengusta had made it clear that if you healed a bone crooked, it would stay crooked. He could not afford crooked. In this world as in his own, it was an act of mercy to shoot a horse with a ruined leg.
With an orison he stopped the bleeding. In the momentary relief the horse calmed, lowered his head to the ground, and cried gently. Christopher seized the opportunity and took the broken leg in both hands, forcing the bone together with grating snap. With all his strength he held it in place while the healing spell left his lips, the horse squealing in pain and rending Karl’s cloak when it fell within range of its snapping teeth.
But as the magic flowed into the horse, the pain vanished and the bone held. Christopher could only hope it was straight. With the last of his orisons he soothed the torn flesh, watching magic knit muscle and skin back into place.
Royal stopped trying to bite Karl and started trying to get up. Christopher did not want to let him—idiotically he wanted the horse to wait and let the leg heal, but he felt faint and weak, and he could not stop the giant warhorse from scrambling to its feet.
Royal cantered away but came immediately back, putting his head down to where Christopher sat in the snow.
“I don’t feel good,” he said, to Karl or maybe to the horse. He grabbed Royal’s head and let the horse help him stand.
Karl, retrieving both their swords from where they had been carelessly dropped, looked at Christopher in concern.
“Mount,” he ordered.
Christopher put foot to stirrup and heaved himself onto Royal’s back, a process that was surprisingly difficult. Karl started to hand him the katana. After a second look he sheathed it for him.
“Ride,” he commanded, and smacked Royal on the flank.
The warhorse broke into a gallop, and Christopher leaned forward, struggling against falling, resting on the animal’s long, warm neck.
Without meaning to, without realizing it was even happening, Christopher blacked out.
He woke up when the horse came to a halt in the middle of a village. Unknown hands were helping him down.
“I’m okay,” he said, and it was mostly true. He could stand, at least.
A woman with concerned eyes led him inside, sat him down, cut open his trouser leg with scissors and examined the wound.
“It is contaminated,” she said unhappily. She healed him with a touch and a prayer. Belatedly he understood she was the village priestess.
“Thank you, Sister.” He was still woozy but no longer in pain. He felt almost entirely well, save for a grayness that hung just below his conscious awareness.
With surprise, she replied in kind. “You are welcome, Brother.” Then she looked at Karl.
“I’m fine,” the young soldier said. “How long do we have?”
“I do not know,” she answered. “But he seems to be recovering. It may be that the poison has already done its worst. But you must get him to a Prelate in any case. It is infected.”
Karl nodded, acknowledging her command, and turned to go. “We left two bodies up the road, about a half mile. Send a party to burn them. But a large party—we did not kill them all.”
“One was ranked,” Christopher interjected.
“How do you know?” the priestess asked.
“Because I fought him. No unranked man could have taken that blow and lived.”
“It’s true,” Karl said with sincere approval, “the Pater swings a wicked blade.”
“Blade?” The priestess’s eyes stared at his sword in confusion. “Oh,” she said, as realization dawned. “You are the War priest from Knockford.” She looked at him the way someone would look at a tiger in a tutu.
“That’s me,” he agreed.
“If you’re done with the lady, Pater, we have some riding to do.” Karl was already opening the door.
Christopher mounted, surprised at how much easier it was this time. Magical healing was disorienting: one moment you were screaming in blood and the next you were fine.
“Thank you again, Sister,” Christopher called as Royal took off after Karl’s horse.
“Our luck is obscene,” Karl barked with mirthless amusement once they were outside of the village. “And your horse magnificent. His strength broke the trip-rope before it brought mine down, even while he set you on your feet. Thus I dodged footmen while you defeated the master assassin despite his poison.”
“No, you chased him off with your glorious charge,” Christopher countered. “He would have finished me in the next pass.” He was recovering from the shock and could analyze things more carefully now. “But why? What did they want?”
“The sword. I had heard rumours, discontent with the idea that a priest could defeat a knight through mere skill. Clearly some believe those rumours and credit the sword with magical powers.”
Christopher looked down at the plain steel at his side. “This thing? It’s not even properly made.”
“I myself would risk much to gain a Sword of Sharpness that sunders limbs from ranked foes in a single stroke. If it were true, it would be worth more than the entire county of Knockford.”
“How do we fight a rumor?” Christopher wondered. “They’ll just keep coming. Maybe you should have left the damn thing on the ground.”
“Maybe you should get a bigger escort,” was Karl’s response.
Christopher wasn’t feeling very well by the time they arrived at Knockford, and it wasn’t just his infected wound. He kept thinking about the sounds a man makes when he’s been run completely through with a long piece of steel.
Impossibly, Faren was already there and expecting them. Karl handed him a sealed leather portfolio, but first Faren had to hear about the most recent attack.
Faren confirmed the wound was poisoned. “Night-drake root,” he declared. “A sleeping draught. Do not feel comforted, though; they did not choose it out of mercy but only because it is cheap. No doubt they would have cut your throat
while you dreamed.” He also confirmed that infection had also been deliberately injected. “They didn’t want you to live long, in any case.”
With a word and a spell he made it all go away, even the gray tang of fatigue.
Afterward the three men sat in the little rectory, while Faren read over the paperwork in silence. Karl waited with his usual remote indifference. Christopher was uncharacteristically quiet. His thoughts weighed heavily on his soul.
The old man set down the last of the papers with a sigh. “Why, Karl?”
The young veteran leaned forward in his chair. “The Invisible Guild operates at will in our lands. Nobles tramp over our peasants and challenge our priests. Our boys march out to war, where they are treated like dogs, only less valuable. It’s time the Church had some spine.”
Faren snorted, shook his head. “You used to be such a sensible boy.” But he addressed the rest of his remarks to Christopher. “Do you know how many soldiers the Church employs? Krellyan has an honor guard of a captain and four knights. Each of our four Vicars maintains a dozen common men, but they are little more than police. We directly rule a tenth of the fiefs of the Kingdom, with fewer soldiers than your average Baron’s retinue. It is true that our Vicars are not inconsequential figures in their own right, but none of them owns armor any greater than chain mail. We simply do not have a military presence.
“Even our feudal levies are led by foreigners, other nobles appointed by the King. We have no leaders, no regiments, no heroes. We simply do not have a military presence.
“Because we are not a military threat, the King has trusted us. Not just this one, but all of them. Because we are not a military threat, the nobles have allowed us to open churches on their lands, provide healing, guidance, and comfort to their people. Because we are not a military threat, we have been allowed to inherit fiefs that were willed to us by lords who wanted what was best for their people. No other faction would be allowed so much concentrated power, and we are still growing.
“And now you want to change all that. A half century of policy, of careful neutrality, of constant growth, and you want to change all that. You want to march to war with pretty lights and grand illusions of victory.”
