by M. C. Planck
“Evil always lays a pretty snare. Good consists of not stepping into it, cinching the knot, and hoisting yourself into the air. Not one of us has walked a road without temptation. Only one of us fell. His hands are stained in darkness, and they will never be clean.”
He had thought her world-wise; now he feared she was world-weary. Unable to restrain his tongue he blurted out exactly what he was thinking.
“You are too young not to believe in redemption,” he said.
“And you are too old to still believe in fairy tales,” she snapped back.
He put his hand on her shoulder, trying to reach her beyond mere speech.
“We are more than our deeds,” he said. “Surely you must see that.”
“Cannan is not,” she answered. “He is a hero. He chose to be defined by his acts; he wrote his fate in blood across the world. A man does not pick up a sword and slaughter his way to rank without accepting responsibility for his deeds. Common men can seek refuge in mortal weakness, but heroes make their own fate, for good or ill.”
Christopher shook his head in denial. “He’s still human, Lala. No more or less than you and I.”
She locked his gaze with her bright green eyes. “You can fly, and you still think you are no more than human?” She sighed, then, taking his hand from her shoulder and clasping it in both of hers. “But of course you do. That is why I love you so: your impervious innocence. It is an itch I cannot scratch, a perfect white wall begging for a muddy handprint.”
Dropping his hand, she walked away to see to the horses and men. He was left to muddle over her words and her meaning on his own.
He had misjudged her. In this world, its hard edge of medieval poverty and cruelty honed into frightful sharpness by magic and monsters, there was little room for the generosity of wealth that he had grown up with. Not just material wealth, but cultural excess; in the swarming sea of humanity on Earth, no vice—and no valor—were unique. It had all been done before, and sung about, and studied, and made into an after-school TV special. Even heroism had been rendered banal by sheer quantity.
Struggling for balance on the naked horse and his raw emotions, he nonetheless recognized there was a value in that, a stupendous mediocrity that glorified by its very blandness. A nation of shopkeepers, Napoleon had sneered of England, and by extension her colonies who had taken bourgeois comfortability to heart. Hitler had sneered, too.
But Hitler and Napoleon had lost. Heroic men who had seized the future with their visions, only to be thwarted by the mundane and the ordinary. This was the history lesson that Lalania did not have. Dashing swordsmen were overrated. Statistics ruled the world, not personality and steel.
Unconsciously, automatically, he adjusted his katana so that the hilt was within easy reach as he rode.
6
LIKE A BAD PENNY
Under the brilliant starlight they came out onto the open marsh and in sight of the fort. It glowed in the distance, warm red and yellow light flickering from its walls. Christopher’s spirits soared. This was the emotion the great castle in Kingsrock was supposed to inspire.
“Thank you, Ser,” he told the young Ranger. “I don’t know how you found it.” They’d been traveling in the dark for over an hour.
“How could I miss it? You advertise your presence like a fishmonger. I fancy I could find the place by smell alone.”
Christopher was trying to puzzle out whether D’Kan thought that was a good thing or a bad thing, when Karl answered for him.
“It is supposed to be easy to find, Ser. We would prefer the monsters attack us, rather than the peasantry.”
D’Kan stiffened. “You think much of yourselves, then. Even the High Druid does not care to shout her name so loudly. There are worse things in the world than ulvenmen.”
“It’s true,” Gregor said. “We do think much of ourselves.”
The Ranger glared at the blue knight.
“It is also true,” Lalania said, “that there are worse things in the world than I care to name at the moment. Nonetheless, men must live. We cannot all blend into the forest like elves. It is not our way.”
“Only because you do not try.”
“We are not theologians, Ser, to fritter our strength on mildewed disputations,” she said. Christopher could not take offense at Lalania’s terms. His was a completely practical style of religion. “The Vicar needs his mind restored to its full strength. This is our primary task. All else must wait.”
“Agreed.” Karl’s tone left no room for dissension, either.
“Disa will be powerless against this, despite her rank,” Gregor said. “We must press on to Samerhaven at first light.”
Lalania cocked an eyebrow at him. “Since when have you shown so much interest in priestcraft?”
Gregor had the decency to blush before continuing. “The cavalry can suspend their patrols and lend us their horses. With double mounts we can make Samerhaven in a day and a half.”
“Couldn’t we ride faster if there were fewer of us?” Christopher was thinking of the time he, Gregor, and Vicar Rana had swept across half the Kingdom in a day.
“Yes, but you can’t ride with fewer,” Lalania said. “You made your men a promise. Your life is not yours to gamble with anymore.”
“The Colonel will make the final decision.” Karl didn’t hesitate to correct Lalania. “Nonetheless, I agree with your advice. It would be a significant risk to expose the Colonel to danger in this state.” He didn’t hesitate to instruct Christopher, either. Christopher had thought he was acquiring a retinue of loyal servants, but instead it seemed he’d gained two babysitters.
“And the prisoner?” D’Kan asked, cool as an autumn breeze.
Karl answered with the finality of a hammer on an anvil. “He rides with the Colonel. From Samerhaven we go north to the Cathedral, where justice awaits.”
Amazingly, D’Kan argued anyway. “What of my people’s justice?”
“If your people wanted the right of justice, they should have captured him.”
“Peace!” Lalania snapped. “Ser D’Kan, no one in the Kingdom disputes the even-handedness of the Saint. Your High Druid can appeal if she is not satisfied, and her arguments will carry as much weight as Christopher’s. But this is not the time or place for this, either.”
Royal added his own comments to the conversation. Smelling home, fresh hay, and the scent of the rest of his herd, he snorted and broke into a trot. The rest of the horses automatically matched him, except for Balance. Gregor made his mount drop behind, to take the rear of the column. The blue knight’s strength had recovered enough that he carried his own sword again.
Riding in through the gates, Christopher saw Disa standing off to the side, silently watching. He tried to smile at her, to reassure her that Gregor was only last, not missing, but he was too busy not falling off his horse. The general mood of the men went from calm to alarm when they realized the horses had no saddles.
A sergeant stepped forward with a halter rope for Royal. Christopher slid off the horse and patted the animal on the shoulder. “Karl can explain it all,” he said, suddenly weary to the core. “For now, we need food and rest.”
Later, with a bowl of pleasingly bland porridge in his hands, Lalania’s reforms having had a marked effect, he saw Gregor and Disa sitting discreetly together, her face a hooded beacon of relief and joy, his of comfort and happiness. It was pedestrian and familiar, and it sparked a pang of envy that Gregor and Lalania had never brought out in him.
The night was not long enough, yet it seemed unending. Karl woke him before dawn, while the sky was still a black velvet shroud studded with diamonds. Tired and disoriented, he followed the young man’s instructions without questioning them.
In the flickering of the light-stones the party saddled up. This was the benefit of having an army: his losses were erased by equipment drawn from storehouses and fresh young faces drawn from the ranks.
Except the armor. Christopher, Gregor, and even Cannan had
left a fortune in handcrafted metal to rot in the swamp. Christopher didn’t miss it, but Gregor did.
“Gods but I feel naked. Nothing but cloth between me and the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”
“Now you know how peasants feel, Ser.” Karl might have been smiling, but it was too dark to tell.
“It doesn’t matter,” Christopher said. “Armor’s useless now anyway. It just slows you down and makes you easier to hit.”
“An opinion we share.” D’Kan was already on his horse. He touched the pommels of his two light swords. “Skill and lively agility are better defenses than inert metal.”
“Your fancy swordsmanship will not avail you any better, sonny. You can’t parry bullets.” Gregor was grinning at the young Ranger as he leapt into the saddle. “But consider, Christopher. Your foes do not wield rifles. You should armor your horsemen at least. Even a shirt of chain can turn an arrow and give your men a second chance.”
“We can’t afford armor,” Christopher said automatically. But that wasn’t really true anymore. To change the subject, he glared at D’Kan. “And why is he coming? I think we can find Samerhaven on our own.”
D’Kan glared back. “I would see the murderer brought to justice, my lord.”
Christopher looked back over the column of horsemen. In the middle he could see Cannan’s gaunt figure, his hands bound to the pommel of his saddle.
“You’ll do what the Colonel tells you to do,” Karl was saying when Christopher interrupted him.
“Forget it. Let’s just go.” The sight of Cannan depressed him unbearably.
They rode out of the fort and onto the muddy streak that served as their road. Its only attraction was that it was free of brush and the stunted, gnarly little trees. The sky was beginning to lighten, and birds called and sang to each other. Christopher felt a bond of kinship stretching back to Cannan. They had both lost their wives to the unpredictable, uncontrollable power of magic. They had both lost their way.
D’Kan rode out in front again, his horse a silent ghost compared to the jingling, clodding steps of the others. The young man’s back was straight, and his head was high. He knew exactly where he was going, and why. Or at least he thought he did. Christopher envied his absolute sense of purpose.
By the end of the day he envied D’Kan’s youthful resiliency. They had ridden for countless hours, pausing only when the horses needed it. They had passed Carrhill without stopping, even though the gates were open and inviting. Christopher was exhausted, sore, and cranky. The only bright spot in his day was that he could see Lalania’s patience with him visibly eroding. It seemed like a fair revenge for all the frustration she had caused him.
At least they got to sleep in an inn. There was one at the crossroads, a dilapidated, sad-looking structure that would have been picturesque and quaint if it wasn’t so dirty. Christopher looked the other way while Karl spent more of his gold, but they had a hot meal and a soft, dry bed. It almost restored his spirits. But then morning came and spoiled everything, as it always did.
“Colonel, wake up.” Karl’s impatience at having to repeat himself leaked out in his tone. Christopher wondered what happened to ordinary soldiers who had to be told to wake up more than once.
“What now?” It was always something.
“Cannan is gone.”
Well, of course. It was simply unthinkable that the villain would not escape at the first opportunity.
“Get D’Kan and track him down.”
Karl lowered his eyebrows, his equivalent to Lalania’s eye rolling at Christopher’s perpetual stupidity.
“D’Kan is gone, too. Presumably the two incidents are related.”
Christopher sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.
“How many horses did they take?” he asked, remembering when he had chased Black Bart across the Kingdom.
“It doesn’t matter,” Lalania answered from the door. Karl stepped aside and let her into the tiny room. “Our path takes us to Samerhaven. That cannot be delayed.”
“Are you nuts?” Christopher felt his blood rising. D’Kan had stolen from him. He would take the prisoner back to his bloodthirsty druids, and they would kill him, and everything Christopher had suffered would be for nothing. But that would not stir the merciless Lalania to pity. She didn’t care about how much Christopher suffered, so he tried a different tack. “Cannan is a murderer. Gods know how many innocent people he’ll kill.” Come to think of it . . . “Wait a minute. What if he’s already killed D’Kan?” Even unarmed, the Baronet was terribly dangerous.
“He hasn’t, and he won’t. Now get up. The sooner we reach Samerhaven the sooner we can catch Cannan.”
“And you know this how?” Karl asked.
“My methods are of no concern of yours, as long as your lord is satisfied.” Lalania’s voice had ice in it, but the effect was wasted on Karl. He matched her glare with his steadfast gaze, until she looked to Christopher for help.
“So tell us how you know,” he said. It was time that Lalania started treating Karl like more than a peasant. It was time that everybody started treating Karl like more than a peasant.
Lalania seemed disturbed by the tiredness in his voice, but she answered in a whisper. “They were seen, Christopher. Cannan rides unbound, following at D’Kan’s lead. Their path can only end in druid lands and the jurisdiction of the Verdant Court. It is as I warned you: he goes to his death willingly.”
“Seen how?” Karl demanded, but Lalania ignored him.
“Magic,” Christopher answered for her. It was always bloody magic. “Lala, you have to teach Karl about scrying, too. He needs to know.”
“Why don’t I shout it from the rooftops?” she grumbled. “Oh, that’s right, because arcane knowledge is dangerous, and sharing it with unranked men just makes them a target. An easy target.”
“You’ve got some strange ideas about education,” Christopher replied. Then he realized it was probably more accurate to say he had the strange ideas, from their perspective. He got out of bed and started getting dressed. Only when he had his trousers on did he realize Lalania was still in the doorway, waiting.
It was too late for modesty now. He kept dressing, and she kept talking.
“They make for Longwelt. A foolish risk on D’Kan’s part; if Cannan were faking it, taking him through Gold Throne territory is only asking for trouble. No doubt the Ranger aims for the forest, where he expects his skills will render him safe from pursuit.”
“Will they? Can’t the Skald see him there?”
“She can, but you can hardly go tramping after him. Taking your retinue through those counties would only be inviting trouble. Taking your retinue through the Wild just over the border from those counties would be an engraved proposal for trouble. A chance to attack a Bright, in the Wild, and an insult to excuse it with? No, Christopher, I will not let you start a war.”
“Another one, you mean,” Karl said. “I believe Bart started the first one.”
“To all of our loss.” She glared at him.
“Then how will we get there?” Christopher asked, uncomfortable with her displeasure.
“First north, through the Undaals. From Tomestaad we can gain a welcome into Sandar, and then we can go south.”
“That is many days out of our way,” Karl said. “We might as well go to Kingsrock and catch the eastern road.”
“Well, I thought we might chance the ’Nars. In Eastvale I could get a better read on the risk.”
Christopher decided he was sorry he’d asked this question.
“You know what? I don’t actually care. Let’s just go.” He strapped on his sword and pushed past them.
When he got to the bottom of the stairs, to the large open room that served as common sleeping hall by night and dining hall by day, he found another target for his anger. Four of his men were still sleeping, laid out on benches next to the fireplace.
“Get up, laggards, and tell me why you let Cannan escape.” He kicked one of the ben
ches, jolting the man lying on it, but to no effect.
“Begging your pardon, Colonel.” A clean-faced boy in a private’s uniform was at his shoulder, polite but insistent. “They can’t get up. They was poisoned in the night by the Ranger.”
Christopher wanted to scream. He wanted to pound his fist into somebody’s face, and pour out all this rage and frustration. But on top of the pain of betrayal was the shame of kicking at a sick man.
“Will they live?” he asked. He regretted the tael he had spent restoring D’Kan to his nobility. He might need it back now.
“The Lady says yes,” the private answered. It took Christopher a moment to realize the boy was talking about Lalania.
“Well, get the rest of the troop ready.” Christopher looked around for something to eat. The innkeeper was cowering behind the door to the kitchen, peeking out like a man watching a bull in a china shop.
“They are getting ready, Colonel. Karl sent them outside twenty minutes ago.”
“Right. Then you get me a bowl of porridge. With honey. And cream. I’ll guard these men until you get back.” Then he sat down next to the sleeping men and tried to salvage his pride.
They found the Vicar of Samerhaven in the main hall of his church. The room was full of miserable people, squabbling children, and crying babies. While Christopher was wondering if it would be rude to cut in line, Lalania swept to the head of the room, past the junior priests and priestesses, acolytes, and guardsmen.
“Lord Vicar,” she said, going to one knee, “your Brother has need of your immediate aid.”
The Vicar glanced at Christopher’s party, frowned, and said, “Excuse me,” to the mother he had been talking to. He turned and led the way through a door, deeper into the building.
Christopher followed, trying not to feel embarrassed. He could not detect any resentment in the stares of the others. These people were used to the privileges of rank. That only made him feel worse.
A few steps down a hall, and they entered a well-lit but plain room, remarkable only for its complete lack of decorations or furnishings. The room was painted white, from floor to ceiling, and Christopher cringed when he saw the muddy footprints his party left.
