The Dread Wyrm

Chapter Fourteen

Sixty leagues south of South Ford, moving the so-called royal army had become an exercise in metaphysical logistics. They’d had two days of solid rain and everyone was soaked to the skin, ill-tempered and bug-bitten.

The sky was always full of an enemy and, according to the messages received, that enemy carried a pestilence deadly to every horse in the army. The captain, as the most powerful magister present, found himself awake all day and all night, and had three skirmishes with them before the cunning predators retired to higher altitudes.

But the captain’s need for sleep-his own weakness-and a need to rid himself of the omnipresent enemy made for the delay. He ordered the column to halt in an easily defended wagon camp just west of the gorge while he waited for the Queen’s party, a day behind, to catch up.

The lost day was welcomed by many-dry bowstrings and dry clothes cooked yellow at fires, as if nature, too, had decreed a day of rest. Out of a misty morning came a bright afternoon. Men wandered about-walking out into the pristine woodlands or along the gorge in chaotic patterns that hid-to those above-that more were leaving camp than returning. The sun dappled the glades around the camp and lit the bright green leaves and the last farmer’s fields of the now distant Brogat, and the men and women, Alban, Occitan and Morean, settled in to a good meal with heavy guards. Sukey’s girls carried mess kettles out to the mounted vedettes and Gelfred’s partisans and tried not to giggle as they passed rows of hungry men in hastily dug trenches. The guard changed an hour before sunset, and heavy patrols suddenly launched from both ends of the camp.

They found nothing, but they made the captain feel better, and they put on a good show for the distant barghasts.

Just at the edge of night, the Queen’s party came in, trailing the monstrous avians like picnickers trailing mosquitoes.

Gabriel was ready-indeed, ever since the Queen had come back into his range, he’d been in contact with her, and now, both used weak counters and cast reckless and inaccurate missiles until the barghasts grew bold. Swooping from the safety of their altitude, they dropped on the Queen’s party as they rode, fully exposed, along the low path in the gorge’s edge. They leaped like wolves upon sheep.

Sheep seldom have hundreds of professional soldiers guarding them. Nor was the animal cunning of the barghast any match for Gelfred’s hunter mind. He had designed the ambush, complete to slaughtered sheep left in forest openings-and crossbowmen in trees with woven leaf screens who could loose their bolts down into the gorge where the overbold barghasts circled below the archers, trapped like trout against a beaver dam.

Every caster present, no matter how lowly, cast together on the first shrill of the horns, and twenty-one set to frame the words Fiat Lux. Every avian was surrounded in a nimbus of light that perfectly outlined them against the darkening sky-

Before Desiderata’s golden light began to pluck them from the air, before the captain rose from his body, dangerously exposed, to chase the last two down-before that, the population of barghasts was culled in a sheet of forged iron tips and heavy bodkin points and quarter-pound arrows. An ancient wyvern-an important clan leader-died in a moment.

The sky was empty.

The mood in camp was festive as the Queen dismounted and Ser Ranald caught her down and then held her arm as she swayed. Behind her, Rowan, the new Lorican wet-nurse, fed the baby, who had slept through the attack and all the consequent archery and sorcery and now looked around with wide-eyed curiosity at the adult exaltation.

The Red Knight bent his knee and kissed the Queen’s hand. “Another good victory for your grace,” he said.

“Another good victory for my captain,” she allowed. “Come, Ser Gabriel. I wish to read all the dispatches.”

“Grim reading, your grace,” he said, and motioned to Toby to start lighting candles in his pavilion. The Queen had acquired courtiers and new men-but he knew most of them and he also knew his sole power over her would not last long. Corcy was at her side, and that seemed well enough. There were two pretty younger men he didn’t know at all. And Towbray. The earl looked like a tired old falcon-bedraggled and yet still dangerous.

There was Blanche. Their eyes crossed, and she flushed, looked away, and frowned.

Damn.

Nicomedes laid out glasses and Alcaeus opened a leather pouch and stacked the messages in the neat imperial order of times and dates. Becca Almspend put a hand gently on the Queen’s arm and then pulled out her spectacles and began to read.

“You see? I’m not even allowed to read my own messages,” the Queen said.

“Not your own, your grace, but my master the Emperor’s,” Ser Alcaeus said. “Loaned to you perhaps.”

A frosty silence lay over the table.

“Alcaeus?” the captain said, in that particular voice.

A pause.

“My apologies, your grace. I felt a point needed to be made, but I have spoken ill.” Alcaeus’s voice was silky with twenty years of surviving various courts, but his brow sprung beads of sweat.

Lady Almspend looked up from the dispatches. “I’m sure we all know the debt of gratitude we owe the Emperor in these dark days,” she said.

Michael cleared his throat. Francis Atcourt looked out the pavilion wall at the suddenly fascinating tail end of the sunset.

“Right,” the Red Knight snapped. “We all love each other. And each other’s intelligence services.”

Ser Ranald laughed aloud. “I think you’ll love this particular well, my lord,” he said, and handed Ser Gabriel a small twist of parchment.

Gabriel laughed aloud. “Well, I for one am going to hell,” he said. “Because I find this delightful. Someone has gifted the archbishop six inches of steel-some sort of small crossbow bolt. I wonder how that might have come about?”

“Dead?” Michael asked. His eyes were on his father.

“Very satisfactorily dead,” Ser Gabriel said, with relish. “What good… luck.” He looked up and his eyes met Towbray’s. “Don’t you think, my lord, that it is remarkable how these events occur? That those who most offend her grace-die.”

Towbray shot to his feet. “Is that a threat?” he asked, hand on his dagger.

The Red Knight sat back. Both his hands were visible. “Yes,” he said.

He and the Queen exchanged a glance.

Towbray glared at his son. “If that’s how you view me, I’ll take my knights and retire to my estates,” he said.

Ser Gabriel shook his head. “A man can die very quickly on his estates. I think you should ride with us, and get to know your son again, and perhaps meet his excellent wife. I promise you, my lord, that as long as you are with us and serving her grace’s interests, you are perfectly safe. Well-apart from the boglins and barghasts.”

Now the Queen smiled. “My brave Towbray needs no further threats,” she said, her voice as pure gold as her magick. “I will keep him by my side for his good company and good counsel, and we’ll have no more of this.”

Throughout, Lady Almspend kept reading, the Queen’s son kept feeding, and Toby and Blanche continued to serve their master and mistress. The service went on-food was served, wine brought.

Out in the darkness, the moon rose, the watch changed, and suddenly Sukey’s voice could be heard. “Grow up in a barn, you useless fuck?” and all the gentles at table laughed or giggled.

Almspend handed the dispatches back to Ser Alcaeus. Charts and maps were unrolled-now scarred with many plans and many daggers.

Gelfred appeared out of the night, dressed in black, and with him was Donald Dhu’s son Kenneth, dressed in deerskin and mail. Both settled into seats that Toby unfolded for them, as if their coming was appointed and ended some preliminaries.

“So,” the captain said. “We lost a day, and the red banda’s lost all their horses. There’s worse to come. We know we’ve already lost messenger birds.”

“How?” the Queen asked with real interest.

“Every message is numbered and we often sent duplicates. And we resend digests with lists of messages by dispatch rider and sometimes by occult means.” Alcaeus failed to keep the smug and civilized superiority from his voice.

“Your grace, the Moreans-the Emperor-have more than a thousand years of experience at this, since Livia herself and her Legio XVIII came here.” The Red Knight smiled at his unnecessary display of historical knowledge and Alcaeus grinned at his erudition.

“So glad we all know which legion came with the Empress,” Francis Atcourt muttered.

“May I continue?” Ser Gabriel went on, as if he had not provided his own digression. “We’re missing birds. Every bird we lose slows our communications and limits our knowledge. It’s only going to get worse.” He looked around. “Second, the red banda’s little disaster is going to slow them. It’s not a catastrophic loss, except that the Emperor will not have Ser Milus on whom to rely in the event of a crisis.”

Ser Michael shook his head. “Meaning he’s dumb as two thick planks and now he has no minder.”

Ser Gabriel shook his head. “I hope it’s not so bad as that-there’s some good heads there. But with all courtesy to Ser Alcaeus, the Moreans can become quite pliable when the Emperor is in the field. I fear for them and I wish Tom would get there.”

“Sweet Christ, my lord, you’re suggesting that Tom Lachlan will be the voice of reason?” Ser Michael laughed ruefully.

There was a brief silence.

“I really wish you hadn’t put it that way,” Ser Gabriel said. He looked around. “In the good news category, we’re shot of the archbishop and all of his baggage. Anyone else have anything positive to offer?” he asked.

Gelfred nodded. “Dan Favour’s ride north made contact with Count Zac’s southernmost patrol. We’re that close. Will Starling says Ser Tom and Amicia are two days ahead of us at the top of the gorge.”

Gabriel made a face. “That’s slow. They must have had trouble.”

Michael shook his head. “We’ve been fast,” he said. “Ask anyone.” He rubbed the seat of his pants, and Desiderata laughed.

The Red Knight took a bowl of filberts from Toby and passed them around after taking a handful. “So-here we are. South end of the gorge, three days from Albinkirk. Here’s the beeves, off to the west. Yes?”

Kenneth Dhu leaned in. “Better ’an that, milord. We’re already at the Nail.” The Nail was a large rock carved with ancient and somewhat intestinal carvings. Men tended to avoid it, but Hillmen always paid it a visit and left it presents.

“Amicia will reach Albinkirk tomorrow. She might even press on to Lissen Carak. Tom will reach Ser John Crayford. We ought to be able to move fast-we should be free of barghasts for a day, at least.” He looked around. “I’d give anything to know where Gavin and Montjoy are, or the Emperor was exactly. But I have to guess he’s at the Inn of Dorling.” He put a large filbert there.

Lady Almspend leaned in. “There’s messages from the west-an army of the Wild in the highlands north of Lissen Carak and another coming down the Cohocton-”

“Please don’t think I’ve forgotten them. I just can’t fight them all right now.” The Red Knight had had no sleep for two nights and his eyes were red-rimmed and angry, although his tone remained mild. “As far as I can see, right now everything depends on the Emperor making it past Dorling before the sorcerer cuts the road. Then he has to choose to come towards us so that the sorcerer is merely chewing on his rearguard. You all remember that road-the sink holes, the deep woods.”

“The wyverns,” Ser Michael said.

“Exactly. And the same fords where the Sossag beat Hector.”

Kenneth Dhu bridled. “Hector Lachlan was no beaten!” he hissed.

Gabriel passed a hand over his eyes and rubbed his cheeks. “Fair enough. Where all the Hillmen were killed in a glorious stand.”

“Ye’re mockin’ us!” said Kenneth Dhu.

The captain glared at him. “May I continue?” he asked.

The younger man subsided.

“We do not want to fight this battle on that road. If we fight at Dorling we might have another kind of ally. If we fight at Albinkirk…” He looked around. “Well, that’s always been my plan and Ser John Crayford’s. To bring the sorcerer to battle in the fields around Albinkirk. We do not want to go fight him in the Wild. But-if the Emperor gets caught up at Dorling, then that’s where the fight will be, and those last forty leagues through the hills will be very difficult. The faster we move tomorrow and the next day, the more options we will have on Friday. That’s all I can say. So-I’m for bed. I’d like to leave at first light.”

They all groaned-even the Queen. But Desiderata rose and smiled radiantly at all of them.

“My captain’s words are my own orders,” she said. “Let us to bed.”

They rose, and bowed. The captain kissed her hand, and then the tent was empty save for a few-Gelfred, who waited to speak to his captain; Sukey, who wanted orders about the morning; and Blanche, who slipped back after seeing to her mistress-to try to speak to Sukey and return her gown.

Gabriel caught sight of her pale face and called Toby to him. “Do not allow Lady Blanche to leave-I wish to speak to her.”

Toby made a face.

The captain spent five minutes with Gelfred as they planned-minutely-the best route for the morrow.

“Weather?” the captain asked.

“With God’s grace, it should be splendid, or so my weather signs tell me.” Gelfred smiled.

“Good-we need some luck,” the captain said.

“Fortune is not God. It is God’s grace that maketh the sun to shine.” Gelfred spoke low and very firmly.

The captain nodded heavily.

“Under God’s grace perhaps we can move a little faster. I’d like you to ask God’s grace to include thunderstorms over the southern Adnacrags, too.” He smiled, trying to coax a smile out of Gelfred.

Gelfred just looked at him-a mild enough rebuke. “I can see the whole of the day,” he allowed. “You are tired, my lord.”

“I am that. Beautiful job on the ambush, Gelfred. You are a craftsman.” He forced himself to smile through the fatigue, to work the magic that bound people to him in hard times.

Gelfred beamed. “They are, for the most part, merely animals,” he said. “Except the wardens.”

Gabriel nodded. Gelfred touched his elbow lightly and drifted off into the dark, his black clothing already invisible, and Gabriel had time to think that Gelfred was getting as little sleep as he and perhaps less, and never seemed to show temper.

Sukey came up. Toby gave him a tisane and he drank it.

“First light,” he said.

“Might as well roust ’em now,” she said. “They’re that tired, Cap’n.”

“Yes. Get your girls cooking now so they have a big meal. Then let the girls sleep on the wagons.”

“Only got six wagons, Cap’n. Rest is ahead-”

“We’ll catch them tomorrow-Gelfred knows where they are. Yes, Sukey, this is going to be hard as hell come to earth. Just keep moving.”

“Always the girls get the short end, Cap’n.” She shrugged.

“Five silver pennies per woman, paid at next pay parade.” He looked up, his eyelids so heavy he couldn’t really look at her. “Best I can do.”

“Fair. Girls have missed sleep for less,” Sukey said. “Best get some yersel’. Want someone to warm your bed?”

Gabriel had enough energy left to laugh. “No,” he said. “Or yes, but no. I need sleep.”

Sukey tittered. “I thought you had the Queen’s girl all sewn up. Too prissy?”

The captain shook his head. “I did something wrong,” he admitted. I had a command meeting over her hidden body, he thought sleepily.

Sukey came closer. “Tom says it helps him sleep,” she said.

“I’m not proposing to share you with Tom,” he said, and regretted it. Her face closed, and she exhaled.

“Sorry, Sukey, that was crude.” He was off in his timing-another evening she’d have laughed, perhaps if Tom was there.

Too tired.

“Never you mind,” she said. “We’ll be ready at first light.” She walked off into the darkness.

“Lady Blanche walked away a few minutes ago,” Toby reported primly. “Nell tried to reason with her…”

“Never mind,” the captain said. “I’m unfit for human company. I think…”

“He just fell asleep while talking,” Toby said to Nell. They had to fetch Robin and Diccon and two other big men to pick the captain up and carry him to his camp bed, and when there he muttered once or twice, and said, “Amicia,” out loud.

All of them looked at each other.

Robin, still senior squire after two battles and anxious for knighthood, shook his head. “Bed,” he said.

In a minute, the camp was silent, except for the sigh of the wind and the movement of the rings of sentries.

North of Dorling-Ser Hartmut

The ground sucked at his horse and when he walked to rest the great beast, the ground sucked at his sabatons.

Ser Hartmut had never been anywhere that he hated quite so much as the Wild south of Ticondaga. And his anger grew with each day of chaotic movement, until on the third day after the fall of the great fortress, he forced his tired, wet horse back along the column-really, more like a storm front-to find the shambling stone-cut monster that was his ally.

Hartmut didn’t have subtlety in him. “Is this really the shortest way to Dorling?” he asked.

Thorn was blessedly free of the presence of his dark master. Hartmut would have told anyone-or even fought to the death to prove-that he was afraid of no man and no creature, but he hated being in the presence of the mocking black sprite that was Thorn’s tutor. The thing’s habit of taking the shape of children seemed to mock the whole conduct of war. It was almost worse when he couldn’t see the Satanic thing. Now that he knew, he could always sense…

Thorn stopped and leaned on the massive spear shaft that was his new staff.

“Ser Hartmut, I am as dismayed by our pace as you are. New events have driven us to different courses.”

Hartmut chewed his words as carefully as he could. He missed De La Marche-for all the man’s soft piety, he had been an excellent foil and a pleasant companion. He would have handled this better. He was seldom prone to anger.

The loss of De La Marche-and of both his good squires-had reduced the company of his peers-even near peers-to Kevin Orley, who was quite mad, Cristan de Badefol, who was coarse and vulgar and a braggart, and a dozen like them. Of his own knights, only Ser Louis Soutain was anything close to a gentleman.

But he chewed his words as well as he might. “I have not been informed of any different courses. I think that we would be better served by sharing our knowledge.”

Thorn, who had never relished being any man’s servant, balked. “My master,” he said with unconcealed bitterness, “wants us to have options.”

Hartmut shook his head. “That is very like wanting to be in a state of indecision, Lord Sorcerer. In this case, we cut the road at Dorling or we reap the consequence of facing a united foe.”

Thorn’s inscrutably stone face remained immobile.

“May I strongly suggest we turn back east and march as quickly as we may to Dorling?” he said. “And where in all the names of hell is your master?”

Thorn could not shrug, but the stone sticks of his limbs rattled and the helixes that powered his great arms and legs slipped and clicked. “He has other concerns besides us,” he said.

Hartmut’s eyes narrowed. “Pass this message on, Lord Sorcerer. I am here on a mission for my prince. For all the vast numbers of things that slither and hop and fly, I’ll note that my knights and my sailors seem to bear the brunt of the actual fighting, and from this I deduce that my services remain vital. Unless you and your master wish to continue without us, I strongly recommend we have a council, choose an objective, march east and defeat the Emperor before he joins with all the other forces gathering out there, according to your own intelligence, sir.” Hartmut’s voice rose as he went on-iron filled it. “Do I make myself clear?”

Thorn’s eyes were not stone. They held no anger-only what appeared to be immense weariness. “I will pass your message when my master returns,” he allowed. “As to your services-this is now the mightiest host of the Wild gathered in many years-indeed, in centuries, here, or so all my arts tell me. Perhaps my master will feel he can be rid of you. Perhaps he will choose to be rid of you himself.”

Hartmut snorted. “Yes, all your creepers and slithers will hold up so well against a charge of knights. And which of you has the experience to make a plan of campaign-aye, or alter one?” He snorted again. He bowed sketchily, and walked back to his own camp, where two of his pages had slung a sort of hammock between two dry trees over the bog.

Gilles, one of the more senior sailors, bowed and handed him wine silently.

Hartmut sipped the wine. “I think our captains are fools,” he said.

Gilles’s shock showed in his face.

Hartmut laughed, a sour laugh. “I have to talk to someone, Gilles.”

Later, in the rainy dark, Ash manifested very fitfully and agreed to allow Hartmut and Thorn to turn east against Dorling.

“I can’t even find the bitch,” Ash shouted into the darkness. “Who is she?” But then he seemed to make a full recovery and became an attractive young woman with a strange concavity-a horrible one-in her back.

“If we go to Dorling, perhaps I can force my recalcitrant kin into the light. If he fights to protect his own, I’m justified in eating him, and if he won’t…” Ash made an odd sound.

Then the manifestation was over, leaving only a struggling knot of white maggots to show the great dragon’s passage. Thorn played with the notion that his master was deliberately lowering their morale, or was perhaps quite mad. But he crossed a few hundred paces of beaver swamp effortlessly and the insects didn’t trouble him, not even the new wyvernflies as big as hummingbirds.

He found Ser Hartmut and wakened him.

“I spoke to the master,” he said, tasting the word master and hating it. “He agrees. Dorling.”