by M. C. Planck
“Stupid bitch,” Bart growled. “I’ll not hesitate to burn your corpse. Get away while you can.” At least now his words seemed to be relevant to the occasion, as if the unexpected presence of the Vicar had steadied him.
“You brought soul-trapped into my lands,” she answered him. “You have gone too far.”
“Her tael will make one of you a captain,” Bart promised, and he kicked his exhausted horse into a canter, charging at them, his men following with ragged shouts.
The grass rose up on one flank of Bart’s line, grabbing at the tired horses. Bart looked around wildly for the druid, and so did Christopher, but it was Rana chanting the spell. Gregor cut across in front of her, charging the other flank. The blue knight ignored Bart, who ignored him also and drove straight to Rana. Christopher would have been worried about her if there wasn’t a sword in his face demanding its own attention. One of the knights had closed with him.
Neither of them was a great horseman, but Christopher had a great horse. Royal instinctively went to the man’s shield side, making his attacks awkward. Christopher didn’t have a shield, so he didn’t care which side his foe was on. He started beating on the man’s shield. It was wood. It might come apart.
Gregor battled two other men. On horseback he had a great advantage, since they could not press against him tightly. He kept slipping out of the reach of one or the other, making it practically a one-on-one fight, where his rank would guarantee him victory.
Bart bore down on Rana, who stood her ground. Christopher heard her cry out in Celestial, turned enough to see her thrust her hand out at the black knight. The knight shuddered but shook off the spell, cursing at her.
He charged upon her and slashed his huge black blade across her head. Her plain, open-faced helmet disintegrated under the attack, falling in pieces to the ground with lengths of her hair. Absurdly, she took the blow with little more than a shrug and repeated her command in Celestial.
“Hold!” she ordered, her fingers gripping the air in front of her as if it was his throat, and this time Bart held. He went rigid, like a person pretending to be a statue. Only then did her desperation become apparent, by the quality of her relief.
She leaned forward, caught the halter of his horse, held it still next to hers. She did not speak but waited patiently against the ticking of the clock.
Christopher’s foe held his shield above his head and swept his blade under it horizontally. The blow failed to penetrate Christopher’s half-plate despite the ringing force, and it gave him room to slide his katana under the shield and thrust up into the man’s armpit. The man squawked, but the chain held. And then Royal sidestepped, putting his weight behind the katana, and it burst through the chain and slid deep into the man’s body.
The man fell from his horse like a rag doll. Christopher urged Royal around to Rana’s side. Gregor was winning, one man down, but then he had to wheel about to face another rider who had freed his horse from the circle of grasping vines.
Christopher raised his sword and took aim at the immobilized form of Black Bart.
Rana spoke: “Strike hard, for the spell ends with your first blow.”
Christopher looked again at the thick armor and lowered his sword. “How much time do we have?” he asked.
“Seconds,” she said flatly. “And I cannot repeat the spell.”
Not enough time to take off the man’s armor, and even if they did, they might not cut through the tael-reinforced neck in a single blow. Not enough time to tie him up. They could take his sword, but just his plated fists were probably enough to beat them all to death. Christopher was already depleted, the blow that had not broken armor would have broken ribs but not for his tael. Gregor had cuts of his own and was still fighting two men. And Rana could have little tael left. Bart’s one strike had been awe-inspiring.
He dropped his sword, grabbed for his satchel, steering Royal alongside with his knees. Pulling out a stick of dynamite, he leaned over and wedged it firmly under Bart’s helmet, in the neck-hole of his breastplate, with the fuse dangling out. He drew the flint-stone from his satchel and struck at the fuse, a short, sharp rap that would not harm the man but would spark the fuse.
His first blow smashed his finger.
“Block,” he ordered Royal, and the horse pressed closer, pinning Bart between himself and Rana’s horse. Christopher struck again, the flint sparked off the metal plate, and the fuse began to sputter. He yanked Royal back and slapped the black knight’s horse on the flank.
“Flee,” he yelled to Rana, and tried to gallop away from the spooked horse, a task made difficult by Royal’s desire to chase it down and make it submit. He had a bad moment until the warhorse acceded to his demands, pulling away a few dozen feet, and then the bomb went off.
Bart’s helmet flew thirty feet into the air as his horse panicked and ran blindly into the grasping weeds, where it tripped and fell with a sickening crack.
“Yield,” Gregor ordered.
The man who had joined the fight late turned his horse to flee, and Gregor cut him down. The other, wounded and demoralized, threw his sword to the ground and started pulling off his helmet.
Gregor rode around the circle to the other two, who were still trying to free their horses.
“Yield,” he ordered them, “or the wizard will use his fireballs against you.”
They did not believe him until Christopher rode over, holding a stick of dynamite in the air.
“You said we could flee,” argued one.
“That was before the fight,” Gregor responded.
“Then blast away, for the bitch will hang me anyway,” the man cursed back.
“Suit yourself.” Gregor put away his sword and began cocking his crossbow.
“I yield,” the other man said. “But I fear to step into the choking grass.” He threw down his helmet.
“Give me a warrior’s death,” the rebellious one demanded. “Fight me man to man.”
“No,” Gregor said, and shot him.
“Dark take you!” the man screamed in pain and rage. He pulled out the bolt, kicked his horse madly. “Move, you foul beast!”
“Yield,” Gregor said, reloading.
“The spell ends soon,” Rana said, and Christopher decided he ought to go pick up his own sword.
Then the grass relaxed, and the wounded rebel charged Gregor with a victorious yell. Gregor fired but missed, dropped the crossbow and tried to get his sword out, but he had to duck as the man swung at him, the blow crunching on the blue knight’s armor. And then the man fell, spitting blood. Behind him the other knight pulled his charging horse to a stop and carefully threw his red sword to the ground.
“That is only one of many foul deeds I have done,” said the traitorous knight. “Yet it was on your behalf. Will you hang me all the same?”
“You will be given a chance to atone, I swear,” Rana answered. “We will not hold your past against you, if your future lies with us.”
“Truly,” said the wounded knight who had surrendered first, “you will forgive us?”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Rana said. “But you will see.”
They bound the two prisoners’ hands behind them while Rana used her last healing spell to fix the fallen horse’s broken leg, since the alternative was killing it on the spot. The other horses were easy to round up, given their state of total exhaustion. Rana spent her orisons making water for them.
“So much magic for mere beasts,” said one of the defeated knights.
“Stop your whining,” Gregor told him. “You’ll not bleed to death, and you might notice she’s not healing us either.”
“The beasts are innocent” was Rana’s only comment.
Christopher noticed the crow pecking at the face of one of the corpses. And not alone; it had already summoned others with its cawing.
Gregor laughed darkly and chased the birds off, and then Christopher had to help him bind the corpses on the least-tired mounts. Seeing Bart’s corpse for the
first time, while knowing he had already died once, was surreal. And not entirely reassuring. Christopher wouldn’t relax until he saw it burned and scattered. It might not stay dead, otherwise.
The original crow squawked in annoyance to be denied its prize, bravely flying up to them to deliver its scolding. Rana gave it a chunk of bread.
“I will have to send a novitiate out to its tree every day, now, to deliver bread.” She sighed. “And crows can live a long time. But he has earned it, I think.”
The three of them each led a string of horses, Gregor’s string bearing the prisoners. Christopher didn’t know what to do to keep the horses in line, but Royal did, so everything worked out. Slowly they walked northeast, headed for Cannenberry.
“We’ll not arrive till long after nightfall,” Rana said.
“Let’s hope there are no other predators on the plains,” Gregor said.
At first Christopher was confused, but from the way the blue knight scanned around them, he realized the enemy mage had not yet been accounted for.
“Where’s your mage?” he asked the prisoners.
“How can we trust their answer?” Gregor said, but one of them answered anyway.
“He did not travel with us. He met us at your village, along with the rogue who opened your door.” It was the traitor knight, pitching hard for his new team.
“Describe the rogue,” Christopher demanded.
“A woman, tall enough to pass for a short man. She dressed in white and carried a sword. She was exceedingly angry with you, Pater.” The knight grinned. “Give me my freedom and I’ll give you her head.”
It certainly sounded like his assassin from the road.
“Do you know how to contact her?”
“No,” the knight admitted, “but if it will gain me favor, I’ll gladly try. If you wish, I’ll even torture her for you.”
Christopher winced. This whole atonement thing was going to be a big attitude adjustment for the man. Assuming he survived it, of course.
24.
A BIT OF POETRY
The worst part about getting to Cannenberry after midnight was knowing they’d missed dinner at the Vicar’s table. But even the cold basket of food he sent to their rooms was rich with meats and cheeses. Christopher felt real gratitude, even while he was ashamed at how cheaply he was bribed.
They slept in, had a wonderful breakfast that could barely be recognized as porridge, and got a late start the next. The Vicar lent Rana his carriage and lent Christopher and Gregor fresh mounts, along with a handful of horse-wranglers for the tired herd. The prisoners he dispatched to the Cathedral in Kingsrock. The corpses went into his charnel house, and only black smoke came out again.
“Magic seems awfully strong,” Christopher hinted to the blue knight as they ambled along. “Rana defeated Bart quite easily.”
“Not really,” Gregor said. “Fighting is about whittling down your opponent, and arms, and tactics, but magic is about staking everything on a single cast. If her second spell had failed, we’d all be dead now. But I’ll grant your fireballs came in handy. I’ve often wondered what would result if the wizards and the priests worked together.”
“I’m not a wizard,” Christopher protested again.
The knight laughed. “Then I guess I’ll never find out. Pater, I know you’re not a wizard, and they’re not really fireballs, but I don’t know what else to call them. By the way, they’re weak compared to real ones. They’re harder to deliver—throwing them, come now, that’s ridiculous—and they don’t pack as much punch.”
“How do you know so much about magic?” Christopher asked, genuinely curious.
“I’ve seen my share on the battlefield. Fireballs are particularly popular, as you can imagine. Also, Lalania won’t shut up about the stuff. She seems to think she should impart the wisdom of her College to me. Claims it will keep me alive.”
“Does it?” he had to ask.
“Evidently, so far.”
Knowledge like that would help Christopher a lot. He needed to find a way to gain the troubadour’s trust without getting more than that. He didn’t want more, and he didn’t want to upset the blue knight, whom he was pretty sure would take a dismal view of any romantic overtures.
“I can teach you the most important lesson about fighting magic, one that I knew long before I met any troubadours,” Gregor continued. “It is this: fast or slow. You either kill the wizard quick, before he can cast, or you wait until he’s out of spells. Priests are a lot hardier than wizards. One well-aimed strike might have killed Rana if she’d been ranked as a wizard. If Bart had been wise, he would have hit you first, but in all your armor, nobody expected you to be the wizard.”
Great, so the battlefield was a game of “pop-goes-the-weasel,” with everybody looking for the hidden landmines. Actually, that matched Karl’s description.
“How do you wait out a wizard’s spells?” Christopher had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer.
The blue knight confirmed his fears. “That tends to involve a lot of low ranks and commoners dying. The quick way tends to involve a lot of dead high ranks, if it doesn’t work. You can guess which way the issue is usually resolved.”
He stabled his growing herd in town, renting space in private barns until he could build another one of his own. He would have complained about the expense, but he didn’t have anybody to complain to. Rana had given him and Gregor their share of tael from the battle, Bart’s helmet conveniently holding his crushed and burnt head in one piece. She gave Christopher all the horses but kept the captured chain mail and swords. She was going to be hiring more guards.
Bart’s sword and armor went to Christopher. Again.
“I’ve already got a sword, thank you,” Gregor had said, “and besides, you’ve earned it.”
Since Christopher also already had a sword, that left no one but Karl. It was agreed all around that he had earned it, as well, so the blade went to him despite his reluctance to accept a magic sword in place of the mere masterwork he’d given away.
Faren caught up to them on the road to Burseberry and offered them a ride in his carriage. Since they were walking rather than taxing the warhorses so soon, they accepted.
Gregor was very satisfied with the latest events, as he explained to Cardinal Faren in-between bounces. Christopher was having trouble following the conversation because he really wanted to take the carriage apart to see how it worked and then hang whoever had designed that travesty of a suspension.
“Your Church needs to take a stronger hand,” Gregor argued. “You’ll not get any more easy fiefs, like the ones you have. Everybody knows your name now, and the Dark is united against you. As much as they can unite against anything, I mean. You have the manpower and the money. Why won’t you field an army?”
“Under who?” Faren was particularly grumpy today. “We don’t have the tael to make lords, even if we were willing to keep that many jackanapes around. And we are not suited to battle, despite Rana’s heroics. She took a terrible gamble.”
“Well, there’s this fellow here,” Gregor said. “He seems suited to battle. Promote him to the peerage. And then see if you can find more like him.”
Christopher suddenly realized they were talking about him.
“Um, no,” he said automatically. But wait: wasn’t this his goal? To be promoted to power?
“More like him?” Faren’s eyebrows were dancing violently. “This one priest of War has all but started a war. Two of him would wreck the Kingdom. And we dare not promote him. We cannot intervene so directly. I know you disagree, Ser, but it is our Church and our future, so we must play our hand as best we see fit.”
Gregor was in too good of a mood to admit defeat. “Black Bart’s corpse is ash scattered to the winds, I’ve got a pocket full of tael, and your Vicar and the Pater raise armies in spite of your fine speech. This is a good day for the Bright, whatever you say.”
It wasn’t a good day for Christopher. When the carriage rolled int
o Burseberry, Karl and the mercenaries broke open the barn. Now the prisoners stood beside the chapel, three lines of dirty, ragged, unhappy men. They grumbled and looked askance at the guards they outnumbered, until Karl threw down the twisted helmet and giant black sword. After that they hung their heads in silence.
“What am I supposed to do with them?” Christopher asked in despair.
“By the King’s law, you can take their heads for tael,” Gregor said.
Christopher couldn’t do that. He couldn’t kill men for loot just because they had lost.
“What about Church law?” he asked Faren.
“The Church has never had prisoners of war before.” Faren was even more rancid than he had been in the carriage. “We cannot atone so many at once. We cannot send them all to Kingsrock.”
“If you feel generous, you can enslave them until they work off their ransom,” Gregor suggested. “A few years of hard labor will do their spirits good.”
“But then who will feed their families?” Christopher asked. Hadn’t they just done that wild ride to save the men’s families?
Gregor shrugged, not with indifference but in defeat.
Christopher turned to Faren. “Help me.”
Faren looked at him, sighed heavily, and turned away from the prisoners to have a quiet conversation.
“Your assistance to date is deeply appreciated, Ser,” he said to Gregor. “But if you would be willing, we would ask more from you.”
Gregor’s lip curled in distaste, but he nodded. While the Cardinal bent his head and muttered a simple prayer, the knight stepped over to the woodpile and fetched the ax.
Then Faren waved at the first prisoner in line, who shuffled forward and without even being told, knelt in front of Christopher’s wood-chopping stump and laid his head on it.
Christopher was too stunned and horrified to object.
The ax rose and fell, sinking into the wood next the man. He flinched, slowly opened his eyes in disbelief.
“Goodman,” Faren said, his voice deep and sad, “we will not punish you for the sins of your master. Nor can we address all the sins of the world. I am going to let you go, on the understanding you will never again take up arms against our Church. I would also counsel you to look to your affiliation, but that is your affair. Suffice to say, do not allow your Yellow to lead you into foolish acts again, or you will lose everything.”
