by M. C. Planck
“Not without a few tail-feathers,” Cannan said with satisfaction, glancing around at the corpses. “But what’s this mewling putrescence?” He kicked the yellow priest lying on the ground.
“A loose end to be tied up,” Gregor said as he dismounted.
Niona spoke to her kittenhawk, and it took to the air. “Bartholomew stands alone, and we have gained his mounts. If we have good and capable horsemen, we might still give pursuit. We should not let this predator escape to kill again.” Christopher was a little unnerved by her manner. He knew she was right, but he couldn’t shake the image of her cutting the knight’s throat.
“Agreed,” Gregor said. “Will your pet find him?”
“If he is near, yes. I do not know what magic he used or how far he traveled.”
Gregor looked to the troubadour, who shrugged unhappily. “My spell-craft is certainly no better than the Lady Niona’s. All I can tell you is it was a device of some kind.”
“Perhaps this can tell us something,” Cannan said, looking at the yellow priest Gregor had hauled to his feet.
“I know nothing!” the priest whimpered. “I only follow orders. The Lord Baron tells me nothing.”
“I know a question you can answer for me,” Gregor said with a dangerous ease. “How many children did you murder last year?”
Christopher started to object to this slanderous accusation, but the man was already confessing.
“On Lord Bartholomew’s orders!” the priest squealed. “He demands the secret rites, and I must obey.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me this. Did you rape them before or after you killed them?” The blue knight casually drew his dagger with his right hand, while his powerful left kept its iron grip on the little man’s throat.
“You cannot hold me to account for my religious duties!” the priest squeaked in wide-eyed terror.
“Just watch me.” Gregor ripped open the front of the priest’s robes. Underneath the stained and tired yellow were more robes, as black as night.
“I beg the justice of the Church,” the priest choked out, futilely struggling against the vise.
“We are on Church lands,” Karl said softly.
“Shouldn’t he get a trial?” Christopher asked uncomfortably.
Lalania’s pretty face was twisted. “He’d be set free. Your Church does not prosecute priests of other faiths. It does not dare warfare.”
“Exactly!” the priest squeaked like a yellow-headed blackbird under the cat’s paw. “You must respect your Church law.”
“I object,” Christopher said to the blue knight. “I formally demand that you surrender this prisoner to the nearest officer of the Church.”
“Dark take you,” Gregor replied with a fake smile, like he was saying, “Have a nice day.” But the phrase was the local equivalent of the F-bomb. It didn’t get any ruder than that.
“Hmm,” Christopher said to the priest. “It appears that the weakness that prevents the Church from prosecuting you is the very same weakness that prevents it from protecting you. Apparently I cannot punish or prevent your crimes, any more than I can punish or prevent Ser Gregor’s.”
Despite his anger, the blue knight grinned at the sophistry, and Cannan laughed out loud. If the women had reservations, they kept them to themselves.
With grim exactitude, Gregor drug his dagger up the priest’s exposed belly, and then across, in a grotesque cross. Blood and guts spilled out, long, gray, slimy loops splashed in red, as the man fell to the ground, grasping in futile agony at his internal organs. Christopher’s head spun, and his knees went weak at the sight, but no one else, save the boys, seemed to be particularly affected.
The priest squealed and bled on the ground while Gregor watched him with bleak satisfaction. Cannan was amused, Niona indifferent, Lalania disgusted but not unapproving. Only Christopher found anything wrong with the sight.
“End it,” he grated.
“It’s exactly what he does to the children,” Gregor said. “Well, minus the raping part, but I’m not interested in that. Help yourself, if you are.”
Christopher could feel his blood rising and pounding in his temples. He glared at the blue knight so fiercely that Lalania intervened.
“This is no less than he deserves.”
“I. Don’t. Care.” Christopher could not prevent their revenge, but he did not have to tolerate wanton cruelty.
With a sigh that might have been resignation, or possibly even relief, the blue knight put his armored boot on the back of the priest’s neck. He reached down with his hand, caught the man’s greasy black hair, and cranked, snapping the neck like a twig. The body convulsed and then lay still.
Cannan was looking around appraisingly. “There’s too many to harvest,” he said. “We’ll have to boil them.” He bent over the dead priest, and without further ado twisted the head off the corpse.
Christopher was going to object, but he fainted instead.
He was out for mere seconds, but the ground was comfortable, so he stayed there while the troubadour knelt over him.
“You are the most puzzling enigma,” she said with an ambiguous smile. “You fight like a swordsman, talk like a priest, and flutter like a virgin on her fourteenth birthday. You know things esoteric even to me, yet toddlers confound you with their wisdom. We troubadours cannot resist puzzles. I would think you tease me purposefully, but I know better now. So instead I am confused, and frustrated.” She ran her hand down his chest, lightly, but not lightly enough.
“Ow,” he said. “Ribs. Broken. Ow.”
“Stupid chain mail,” she grumbled.
“He can’t fight like that,” Gregor said, leading two horses over to them. “Leave him. The druid’s pet has not returned. We must scout a wider circuit.”
Christopher raised his head enough to see that Karl was mounting a steed from Black Bart’s retinue. Cannan was still making sickening noises around corpses, filling up a sack with disgusting bulges, but then he was done and leaping into a saddle.
“I can ride,” Christopher forced himself to say. It was just pain. His tael would not let him bleed to death, at least not from this injury.
“No you can’t,” Gregor objected quite logically.
“Don’t leave us alone,” one of the boys whispered, but Gregor overheard.
“No need to worry, lad. We’re pursuing them now. You’ll be safe enough until we get back. But load your bows, just in case.”
“We need him,” Niona said. “Eat,” she told Christopher, passing him a tiny handful of berries. He was going to ask, but breathing was harder than eating, so he did what he was told. Unsurprisingly, the pain receded quickly, and he made it into Royal’s saddle before the party left without him. He was going to ask if there were any more for the boys, but the druid shook her head.
“Why do we need him?” Cannan asked, innocently curious, as they rode out to the highway.
“Because he might still be the target of assassins, and we can’t leave him lying around helplessly,” Lalania explained with a trace of exasperation.
“Because he is insanely lucky,” Karl said.
A hundred yards down the road, they found a roadblock. Two trees had been felled and strung with ropes. It was the work of a moment to open a path, but that was a moment they would not have had if Black Bart had been behind them.
Lalania’s sharp eyes made a sad discovery. She slid from her horse and gently lifted the black-and-white body of Niona’s kittenhawk, now broken and stained with red.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the other woman in genuine sympathy.
“It is the cycle,” was Niona’s response, but her eyes were glistening and she turned away abruptly.
“It is a crossbow quarrel,” Karl said, examining the tiny corpse, his ironed flatness the only hint of his emotion. “A white one, fletched in goose feather.”
Christopher and Karl exchanged glances. They had seen this color of quarrel before, although last time it had been impaled in Karl’s sho
ulder.
“My enemies combine against me, it seems.”
“So he had reinforcements waiting,” Cannan said. “Damn, but I’m good. If we had tried to flee, we would have been in Dark water.”
“Horses have been this way,” Lalania said. “Niona, can you see?”
“Yes,” the druid answered. “Karl’s, and many others besides.”
“We’ve lost him, then,” Gregor complained. “With plenty of horses, a head start, and an unknown number of reinforcements, we don’t dare chase him across the countryside.”
“Assuming he is even out there,” Lalania said. “For all we know, his spell took him home.”
“Well, there’s one less Dark priest in the world. I suppose that will have to suffice for a day’s work,” Gregor said, but he clearly wasn’t ready to suffice.
“And a sack of heads,” Cannan said encouragingly. “We’ve made a tidy profit.”
“He stole Karl’s horse,” Christopher complained.
“We stole his back,” Lalania pointed out. “Ten to one.”
“And you’ve got a nice pile of armor to add to your Black Bart collection,” Cannan laughed. “But let’s get to the point. I claim six shares of the tael, for myself and Niona.”
“I claim four, for myself and Lalania,” Gregor said.
“The Pater claims two, one for himself and one for his troop,” Karl said, when it was clear Christopher hadn’t realized he was supposed to say something.
“Fair enough,” Cannan said. “We’ll pass on the arms. I don’t fancy hauling that crap around. Unless there’s any magic?”
“I doubt it,” Lalania said. “Bart seems like the type to take it with him, but I’ll check. His men didn’t even have purses. Except the priest.” She produced a leather pouch, tinkling with coins. “Not much, but it’s gold.”
“We’ll take half of that, then,” Cannan suggested, “and leave the arms to our valiant troop. Gods know they need them. And the horses for Karl, since the Goodman lost his.” Royal snorted, perhaps in approval.
Christopher was deeply annoyed that they were even having this conversation. There were more important things to think about than loot.
“If you’re quite finished, what are we going to do? I have wounded, I have dead, and a long day’s march through unfriendly territory.”
“It’s a short march, and Earl Fram is as friendly as you can get for being a cheapskate,” Gregor said. “But I’ll be glad to escort you.”
“We’ll take you home, Pater,” Cannan said. “We’ll get no more fun out of Bart today.”
“Ser is right,” Karl said. “Black Bart flees the field, for now. With your permission, Pater, I ride to Kingsrock.”
“Why?” Clueless, Christopher had to ask.
Karl almost revealed an emotion. “This was an act of open war. The Saint must be informed. Something must be done.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Lalania cautioned. “Your Church ever walks with a light step.”
Karl did not deign to respond, simply looking at Christopher for release.
“Of course, Karl. Whatever you think is best.” Christopher was too tired to wonder why Karl was even asking him. Shouldn’t Karl be telling him what to do? But the young man bowed his head, wheeled his newly gained horse, and was gone.
The rest of them rode back to the impromptu camp. Luckily for Christopher, Gregor took over command and set the still-functional boys to stripping bodies and boiling heads. All Christopher could do was sit next to Kennet’s cold body and worry. What was he going to tell Dynae?
“Your share,” Niona said, delicately handing him a tiny purple stone.
It was about the right amount for a revival. Niona saw him looking speculatively at the corpse and shook her head.
“Your sympathy touches me, but is it not childish?” she said softly. “The cycle cannot be denied.”
“I’m not big on cycles,” he said. “I tend to think more in lines.”
More riders came from the road to join the camp, but they wore white. The town was only a few miles east, and Karl had stopped off long enough to alert the Vicar. Christopher felt stupid for not having marched there in the first place, but the man had made him feel so unwelcome, he hadn’t thought of it as a place of refuge.
The Vicar had brought only four men with him. Either that was all he could mount, or he was counting on his moral and political authority. Either way, Christopher couldn’t fault his personal bravery.
And he couldn’t fail to be grateful after the man single-handedly healed all of the boys.
He didn’t heal the knights, though. They weren’t seriously injured, just scratched, since the combat had not completely exhausted their stocks of tael. Christopher’s curiosity got the best of him, and he asked Cannan how long it would take for him to be at full fighting strength again.
“Tomorrow,” the big man laughed.
“It comes back that quickly?” Christopher was impressed.
“I don’t know. I’ve never waited before. I just have to wait on Niona.”
Gregor was more helpful. “A week or so, Pater. Unless you see fit to hasten the process, when you are able.”
“Of course,” Christopher promised. “It’s the least I can do.” He was a little unhappy that the Vicar hadn’t already done it.
But Gregor excused the other priest. “He’s probably low, Pater, and he wants to save some for emergencies.”
“He probably doesn’t want to become involved in foreign affairs,” Lalania said, less sanguinely. “He’d like to pretend this was a fight between ranks that just happened to be on his land, instead of an attack on one of his Brothers. And in a way it was. I think Bart is more focused on the ring now than the sword.”
The boys had been building a funeral pyre and stacking the corpses on it. There was one body left, and everyone looked at Christopher expectantly.
“No,” he said. “We’ll take him home with us.”
“I understand. His family will want to bury him in his own village,” the Vicar said, not understanding.
The Vicar’s soldiers stood guard over the burning pyre. They would scatter the ashes later, leaving nothing identifiable. There would be no second chances for these men. The fate that Christopher had narrowly avoided reached out for him in the tendrils of foul smoke, sickening him.
As they group departed, he saw Cannan toss something small and black on the flaming pyre. When Niona thought no one was observing her, Christopher saw that she wept, and Cannan held her tenderly.
In Knockford his allies deserted him. Niona took Bart’s warhorse with her, a fait accompli since she was the only one who could approach it, let alone ride it. She left her well-trained saddle mare in its place, adding to Christopher’s newly acquired herd. It would be a good training horse for the boys, a way to work up to the less-forgiving cavalry horses.
Unnerved by the loss of the man who had been his shield for the last four weeks, Christopher tried to bribe Lalania and her slice of beefcake into replacing them.
“I need an intelligence agency. How much would it cost to put you on the payroll?” he asked.
She snapped her head in sharp exasperation. “What is it with men? Must you vase the flowers while they are blooming?”
He was pretty sure his lack of comprehension was not due solely to language issues.
“I am too young to settle down,” she sighed. “But I serve your cause, even if I am not your servant. And I serve your cause best on the road.”
Ser Gregor, at least, was convinced to stay.
“My blade is pledged to oppose the Dark, and thus I must follow its lead. However, you do seem to be attracting more than your fair share of Darkness, so if you’ll feed me, I’ll stick around for a while.”
It was a bargain price for a knight of the same rank as Cannan, so Christopher readily agreed. The boon was double; in Karl’s absence, Gregor automatically took over command of the boys, putting them to work on drills and standing watches. He
just couldn’t bear to see them standing around idle.
The boys kept dropping hints that they would look dashing in all the armor they’d liberated from Black Bart’s troop.
“That’s the problem,” Christopher told them, “you would. The Vicar is angry enough that you even exist, following me around like a retinue. Imagine how annoyed she would be if you looked like knights.”
That shut them up. They may have fought desperate battles in distant lands against dark foes, but they were still afraid of annoying the Vicar. As was he, to be honest. The next conflict he would have to face without them. He was going to ruffle enough feathers as it was.
Helga washed his clothes that night and trimmed his hair and beard. The preparations were not missed by the sharp-eyed Gregor.
“Expecting a confrontation?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be trying on some of that fancy armor instead?”
“I’m confronting tradesmen, not soldiers. And no, you can’t come. I’d leave my sword behind if I thought I could get away with it. They’ll be angry enough as it is. I don’t want them to feel like they’re being invaded.”
“Why are they going to be angry?” Gregor asked with undue concern.
“The Saint gave me rights to the Old Bog. The townsmen aren’t exploiting it efficiently, so I’m going to shake things up.”
This explanation worked as well on Gregor as it had on Captain Steuben, winning his immediate approval.
“Don’t be too happy,” Svengusta warned the knight. “Give him time, and he’ll get around to upending your whole way of life, too.” Svengusta laughed, but Christopher didn’t. It was too close to the truth.
21.
SHOWDOWN AT OLD BOG
Looking over the crew of diggers Tom had hired, Christopher briefly considered calling for his troop again. But they were still back in the village, and he reminded himself this wasn’t going to be a battle. The dirty, ragged, and not overly bright men before him weren’t supposed to be impressive.
“I’ve not made you any friends,” Tom told him in a private voice. “Save of course for these men themselves. All of them were employed yesterday, though not happily. Now it’s their employers who are unhappy.”
