Gutwin nodded, thinking it over. “If you have the mangonels built ahead of time, one of Godefer’s apprentices could teach your men the use of them. I still don’t know why you want to cross the river, though. How about this: We build the mangonels here and you take them with you, along with one of the apprentices. In exchange, you give me a hundred decent horses.”
“How about both apprentices for fifty horses, and give me four mangonels you’ve already got on your walls for the other fifty. That way I’m out of your hair by day after tomorrow.”
And so it went. They dickered for the siege engineers, they dickered for arrow heads, they dickered for unskilled armsmen, gold and half a hundred other things. In the end Aelfric didn’t have to confiscate or levy or appropriate anything, and he knew Gutwin was grateful for it. If Northcraven City fell, Redwater Town would swiftly follow, and the only fortified position on the river would be Maslit. Aelfric wanted it well defended and in the hands of a friend, and he hoped he’d made one.
His army was in their camp and long asleep before Aelfric finally finished negotiating with Gutwin, and he was glad they would not have to march tomorrow. He’d promised the captains that they could give their men a shift in town, even though it meant handing out a pay disbursement early. Gutwin’s gold had bought him another month’s pay. It was the dead of night and he was cold, and sore tempted to take the bed in the castle that Gutwin offered, but he had made a lot of rules for the men and even more for himself.
One of the rules was that he always slept where his army slept, so he roused the hostler from his bed, saddled the gray pony he’d become fond of riding, and returned to the sleeping fort. The eastern sky was lightening when he finally found his tent and rolled into bed. An hour later the cornet men blew the horns for first watch, and he headed toward morning mess.
“You know, only the Privy Lord could knock the fun out of a whorehouse.” Terric Kalliner’s voice was only slightly bitter. “No hard spirits, no carousing and we got to go in the middle of the blasted morning when it’s so light you can see how ugly they are. On top of that we have to go to mandatory temple in the cathedral right afterward, and every churchman there knowing where your prick has been.”
“Shut up, Kalliner.” Smiley Ahtain replied without rancor. “Besides, at least we’ll be the first ones there. We won’t be following up sloppy leavings from half a hundred other men.”
Smiley Ahtain Nailwright was the fyrdman for the Red Tiger Third Sword Fyrde, still called the Blackhill Gang, even though most of its original members were now gone. Their original fyrdman Bibiker had died at Walcox, and so had Kandin, Helyas and Kandos. Blacwin O’Galt, Odo D’Archer and Ymbert Charkoler had all three been promoted to fyrdmen, and each had command of his own sword fyrde now. Only Masci Barliman, whom they’d taken to calling Baldy since he was so sensitive about his bare scalp, Terric Kalliner and himself remained from the original fyrde, formed a lifetime ago in Silver Run.
Baldy acted too young to be a fyrdman yet, even though he was all of nineteen and had fought in both the Privy Fort and the Whitewood. Nobody wanted Terric Kalliner for a fyrdman, for the weasel-faced man constantly complained, even if he was a competent swordsman. Still, he’d been in the Whitewood, so Smiley didn’t allow any of the piss-purples to tell him to shut up. Maybe after they’d survived a fight that would change.
He had eight piss-purples in his fyrde, more than any other, gathered in Walcox from the leftovers of defunct free companies or recruits gathered wherever. He could remember their first names if he thought about it, but there wasn’t much point to it. He’d learned the folly of forming close friendships at Walcox. It was two hours of drill a day in the Blackhill Gang, a tradition started by the Privy Lord himself, and Smiley held them to it whenever they weren’t marching. The fyrde was probably no worse than it had been before Walcox, and their time putting up their ten paces of wall was average, if not competitive.
The Blackhill Gang had the privilege of being one of the first three fyrdes to enter Maslit, for Smiley had volunteered them for crash duty next week. The fyrdes on crash got preferential treatment in things like being first to mess or first to the whorehouses, because next week they might all be dead.
The streets of Maslit were packed with farmers, tradesmen and refugees, so the Blackhill Gang marched, if not in formation, then at least all in a cluster, down the streets to the market square. Smiley had become a good judge of where the whores could be found, and he made his way to the waterfront district with all of the certainty of a good hunting hound on a fresh trail.
Smiley had been in many towns, and only in the Regency had he seen so many tall buildings. The owners had been prohibited from expanding outside of the city walls or into the broad roads, so instead they had built upward, and all of the buildings were at least two, and some three or four stories tall. Their upper floors did not hang over the street here, either, which was also unusual in Smiley’s experience. There was no ducking chamberpots in Maslit, and the town didn’t smell at all like shit, which most towns did. Maslit was unusual in many ways, but Smiley took the right street to the right district, and there he found the right door.
The sign over the door named this place the Winsome Mermaid, and had a suggestive illustration that fairly advertised the goods within. Smiley’s everpresent grin widened when he stepped through the door. A chubby brunette with pale skin, bright red lips and a truly magnificent bosom grinned right back. “What will it be, soldier?” She asked, but only for form’s sake.
“The Lord of Light, our great God Lio, fills your mother with His Light before ever you are born. As she carries you the Light grows, and on the day of your birth you are filled with it.” The Bishop of Maslit, Goubert Larvantis by name, looked over this specially assembled congregation with an expression of mild irritation. This service was just for the soldiers of Lord D’root’s army, and half of the soldiers appeared to be nodding, and many had smelled of drink when they’d assembled here. But both Lord D’root and Earl Z’Ullmer were looking at him from the front pew, and several hundred godsknights sat in attendance as well, their eyes focused and their backs held rigid. Sir Celdemer was among them, and he was listening with close attention. He knew that Bishop Larvantis wanted to make a good impression on the visiting Bishop Weymort, so he hoped this would be a good service.
“The innocence of a child is a Light within itself, and joy and great comfort come from such things, even to the godless. But as the child grows, he comes into contact with the world, and we live in a fallen world, my friends.” Celdemer heartily agreed. Few men had seen more of how fallen this world could be.
“Shadows lie upon this fallen world, and there is no Light, none anywhere, that is not stained by the shadow of the Dark One.” This, too, Celdemer had found to be true. He thought of the children he’d helped to bury in Walcox, and tears began to form in his eyes.
“Shadows wait for the innocent child, and as he matures, the shadows grow within him, until his innocence seems but a memory. A young man might be persuaded to do terrible things. A woman might also.” Celdemer nodded agreement, for hadn’t he felt such a shadow growing?
“But when I say no Light is unstained, I do not mean that there is no source of Light in the world. Verily I tell you, when you walk into a holy place, and you put the shadows from your heart, you can see and feel the Holy Light of Lio. When you contemplate His Holy Word, handed down to us from the Prelates since ancient days, read from the writings of saints, or when you partake of His Holy Ritual you can feel for a moment the Light, and for a moment wash away the stains of shadow.” Celdemer thought of the recent source of Light he’d found, but the thought troubled him.
“But what happens when a man steps from the holy place and walks back into the world? Does the Light diminish and fade? Do the shadows once again form in his heart? Indeed they do, unless….” Unless what? Celdemer thought while the bishop paused.
“Unless the man carries the Light with him. And how is the Lig
ht to be carried into the fallen world? The same way a man might carry anything precious, in his heart and in his hands.”
Celdemer listened intently. “It is easy to carry Light in your heart, friends. Think on the Holy Words. Pray. Think of how you might do the will of the Lord of Light. If you have the Light in your heart, the Light will be in your words and on your tongue. Gentle and courteous speech, generosity in praise, words of kindness and of love; these are the things that mark a man of the Light. But this does not mean you are weak or timid in your Light, for a man of the Light also hates the Shadow, and is not loathe to speak against it. A man of the Light has no tolerance for evil and vice. He has strong words against it, and that is how you know his heart.
“But the hands, Bishop? You ask. How does a man of the Light carry Light in his hands? For light has no substance. Light has no weight and cannot be put in a box. Indeed, you close up a box and all that is within it is darkness.” Celdemer nodded agreement, but again there was that nagging thing in the back of his mind, the thing he could not discuss with anyone.
“You carry the Light in your hands by employing them in service to the Light. That is my answer.” The Bishop was raising his voice, and Celdemer found to his irritation that several men from the mercenary companies appeared to be snoring, and the Bishop was speaking loudly to be heard over them. “Good and kindly deeds mark a man of the Light, but again, this is not to say he is weak. Sometimes a man of the Light must harden his hands to grim and purposeful work. Sometimes the work of Light is hard, and sometimes it does not appear to be kind.
“YOU ARE MEN OF WAR!” The Bishop shouted, jarring many men awake. He continued in a milder tone. “For those of you who were sleeping, I will say it again: You are men of war. The business of war is killing, and sometimes you must do things that seem like the work of Darkness in the prosecution of war.
“A great darkness spreads from the north, and the Northcraven Cathedral lies under siege. The godless cross the Redwater and spread their darkness everywhere, murder and rape and pillage. They lie now heavily upon the Emerald Peninsula, and wherever the godless come, darkness grows. What is a man of the Light to do?” Then he stepped down from the podium and walked directly toward Celdemer. He stood in front of the godsknights, and looked Celdemer in the eyes. “What is a man of the Light to do, godsknight?”
Celdemer was surprised at being so singled out. He hadn’t had two words with the Bishop of Maslit and didn’t know the man. Still, he had his answer. “We kill them.” He said quietly. The Bishop nodded and returned to the podium. Then he turned to the assembled men, some of whom were looking at Celdemer still.
“WE KILL THEM!” The Bishop repeated. “In the name of the Light, say it with me, men of war. WE KILL THEM!”
“WE KILL THEM!” Shouted the Red Tigers. “WE KILL THEM!” Repeated the Hammers of Arker. “WE KILL THEM!” Roared the godsknights, and everyone there yelled it, again and again, until the people on the streets outside turned and looked at the Cathedral in wonder.
Celdemer was pleased. It had been a good one.
When the service was over, half of Lord Aelfric’s men had to return to the sleeping fort, but for half of them the day in town was just beginning. They had timed the service so that it happened between the shifts, in this way avoiding heavy traffic on the bridge and at the same time taking the men off of the streets. Celdemer realized that to Lord Aelfric this was just a clever way to manage his men, but the godsknight was glad that the men had at least been forced to listen to one sermon in this long and ghastly campaign. He saw Eskeriel walking with his scouts, and suddenly he knew that here was one who would listen to his problem without judgment. They had been friends for years, before he’d even become a godsknight, and Eskeriel was a patient man with a lot of experience in the world. Surely he would know what to do.
Celdemer was a man of quick and decisive action, and as soon as he had the thought, he acted on it, taking the Aulig’s arm and drawing him close. “I need to speak with you.” He whispered, ignoring the sly glances that his action drew from men who thought he did not see them. He’d lived all of his life with such glances, and he didn’t care what men thought of him. There was no insult he could not address squarely with a blade in his hand, not that he sought such things out, and really, it had been a long time since anyone had thought to challenge him for his ‘disportment.’ Even his friends misjudged him sometimes, and that was painful, but he’d always been aware of the difference in him.
“How can I help you, Celdemer?” The Aulig asked.
“Not here.” The godsknight looked about as if everyone was listening, which they probably were, not that he cared. “Privately.” Eskeriel nodded, and they joined the throng leaving the cathedral.
Finding a quiet place to talk was not as easy as he’d hoped in overcrowded Maslit, but eventually they found a book seller’s shop that was all but empty of custom. The soldiers liked to do many things with their free time, but reading was not among them. Celdemer gave the proprietor a silver mark for the use of a portion of the shop that was full of dusty scrolls and a few unread books on maritime law or something. There was a small table there, and Eskeriel sat down across from him and nodded. “What’s going on, Celdemer?”
Now that he had his chance, the godsknight was reluctant, hoping that Eskeriel would not find humor in what he said. He could stand to be berated, chastised or criticized, but he would have been unable to bear it if his friend mocked him or laughed. Finally he closed his eyes and made his confession. “Eskeriel, I believe I am in love.”
Tuchek blinked. “Say that again?” He said, for the words were not even close to within the realm of what he’d expected to hear.
“I said I think I am in love.”
Tuchek sat more firmly in his chair, then nodded briefly. He knew that to smile would possibly be the worst thing he could do. He knew his friend was given to emotional excess, but this? “I assume you aren’t talking about some godly revelation. We’re talking about a person?” Tuchek had a sudden fear that it might be him.
“Yes.” Celdemer said breathily. “All I can think about is her face. Her quiet and serious manner. Her bones are so delicate and fine, and she carries herself with the dignity of a queen.”
“Seven hells, you aren’t in love with the queen, are you?”
It was Celdemer’s turn to be surprised. “Why would you say that? I’ve never even seen the woman.”
Tuchek shook his head. “Sorry.” Then he became more serious. “Who is it, then?” He knew none of the godsknights ever frequented the whores’ tents, maybe it was one of the heartnurses? But they were mostly goodwives or crones.
“The king’s eye. Lanae Brookhouse.” Then he smiled. “Just saying her name makes my heart sing, Eskeriel.”
Tuchek frowned and he spoke quickly in reaction. “She’s half your age, Celdemer. Maybe less than that.” Celdemer’s smile did not lessen.
“Oh, I know, Eskeriel. I know. But ever since I saw her at Walcox, she’s all I think about, day and night. Her face, the way she walked, her voice. She was so tiny, Eskeriel, like a little bird, so serious in her flying leathers, but when she climbed on Sentinel’s back, she was so clearly his master. You could see the devotion to duty in her. You could see how careful and how serious and how grown-up she was. I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind, not for a single hour. Many men my age take wives that are hers. The age is not a barrier. Besides, we could wait until the time was more seemly.”
“Have you even spoken to the girl?”
“Only a few words. But they were enough for her to capture my heart.”
“Why, Celdemer, what did she say?”
Celdemer blushed, not wanting to seem ridiculous, but knowing how it would sound. “She refused my invitation to dinner.”
“So you want to add sensible to her list of admirable traits?” Tuchek replied. “In case you have forgotten, godsknight, you are sworn to celibacy. Celibacy is pretty strictly defined, last I h
eard. You could probably be forced to do penance just for thinking of her that way.”
Celdemer blushed and shook his head. “I don’t think of her that way, Eskeriel. I mean, not only that way. It is not about the sex. It was her whole person I fell for, not just her beauty. When I think of her, I think of long walks we might take together. I think of sitting in her mother’s orchard and eating peaches. I think of meeting her family and making a family and all of the joy that would bring me.”
“And being stripped of your knighthood and losing all your titles and any claim you might have for a lordship.” Tuchek added. “Don’t forget that. Also watching your sons grow up while you are too old to see them to manhood. Make sure you think of that, my friend. And how do you know her mother has an orchard?”
“Well, I went there, of course. I had to know what kind of a family she had. Oh, they were just wonderful, Eskeriel. Good freemen farmers, and I spoke long to her mother. Not about my feelings, of course, just about peaches and the weather and farm life in Walcox. She was just the most practical and sensible person, and she would be such an excellent grandmother.” Then he paused at Tuchek’s look, almost pouting. “I knew you would be upset. But I have no one else I can tell, and I need to know what to do.”
“Don’t tell anyone else, for starters.” Tuchek replied, stunned by the lengths to which the godsknight had carried his obsession. He realized that this must be the first time Celdemer had ever felt infatuation for a girl. Tuchek could scarcely call her a woman. Celdemer, probably one of the most dangerous men in the world with a blade, was acting like a love-struck teenager. He scratched his head. “Best advice I can give you, one grown man to another, is to just forget her. It doesn’t sound as if she knows you exist for starters, so keep it that way.”
War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy Page 86
