The Dame

by R. A. Salvatore

  “There your laird errs, my friend,” she called down. “This is my . . . disagreement. I and my Vanguardsmen will not leave Chapel Abelle at this time. Tell Laird Panlamaris that Dame Gwydre and Vanguard stand with Father Artolivan as guests in his good house. Explain that your laird, too, is welcome here, where we may speak of these pressing issues before rash decisions are made that cannot be undone.”

  Laird Panlamaris’s response came back in mere heartbeats. “Father Artolivan’s decree of disobedience to the throne, if it stands, thus does end all discussion.”

  “It stands, and I stand with Father Artolivan,” said Gwydre. “Pray tell your laird that he should consider very wisely his next actions.”

  The proclamation, so final and clear, lifted the hearts of all the brothers.

  Word went back and came forward, and the courier’s pause as Panlamaris’s response was whispered into his ear foretold ill.

  “We have prisoners, Father Artolivan,” he said with a backward motion. On Panlamaris’s responding wave, a dozen or so captured brothers from the Chapel of Precious Memories were shoved forward to stand beside the kneeling Fatuus.

  “Surrender the prisoners loyal to King Yeslnik,” the courier demanded. “Or these men who would not denounce you, your brethren, are declared guilty of treason against the throne of King Yeslnik and shall be punished accordingly.”

  “Treason?” Father Premujon shouted before Artolivan could reply. “They have done nothing!”

  “They refused the leniency of Laird Panlamaris and the choice of the new father of the Chapel of Precious Memories, Father De Guilbe,” the courier said. Gasps sounded all along the wall.

  “This is my Laird Panlamaris’s last word,” the courier finished. “Release the prisoners loyal to King Yeslnik at once or witness the consequences.” He bowed and ran across the field to join his companions.

  “I cannot do this,” Father Artolivan lamented. “But am I to witness the executions of innocent men?”

  “Perhaps we should let them go,” said Gwydre.

  “And then he will demand that we turn over the men of Ethelbert for execution as King Yeslnik has decreed,” said Artolivan. Gwydre had no answer.

  But across the field, Brother Fatuus did.

  “Abelle!” he cried, his voice clear, unafraid, slicing loudly through the windy day. “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!”

  “Saint?” said one monk down the wall. “That is heresy. The beatification has only just—” Others hushed him.

  Brother Fatuus rolled over and managed to slip his bound hands around his tucked feet to bring them in front of him. He flipped up from his knees to his feet and began walking toward Chapel Abelle, repeating that cadence every step, his voice strong and without a quiver. “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!”

  “Oma tula mere?” Brother Pinower and others asked.

  “He’s got Vanguard blood, he does!” Dawson McKeege explained. “Oma tula mere—in the arms of my loving mother.”

  “What is he doing?” asked Brother Pinower.

  “He is giving his soul,” Father Artolivan replied, his eyes growing moist.

  Cries of “Halt!” resounded from Panlamaris’s line, to which Fatuus merely lifted his arms and eyes to the sky and continued his march and his chant.

  Panlamaris motioned a spearman to his side and pointed emphatically at Fatuus.

  “My prophet, my saint, oma tu—” Fatuus gasped as a missile hit him square in the back. Everyone watching from the chapel walls and tall buildings—monks, Vanguardsmen, and even the men who had been sent to Chapel Abelle as prisoners—gasped when the point of that spear drove through the monk’s back and out his belly.

  Fatuus dropped to his knees, arms still high, gasping for breath. Somewhere, somehow, he found a moment of great strength and wrenched his hands apart, loosing the bindings. Fatuus found his voice again. “Oma tula mere!” The wounded monk miraculously regained his footing, impaled though he was, and resumed his march, his arms high and wide.

  A furious Laird Panlamaris summoned other spearmen; a barrage of missiles soared at Fatuus. Again and again the spears violated his flesh, plunging into his shoulder, his back, his calves.

  Fatuus kept walking, kept chanting, now more like singing to a beloved. “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!”

  “Stop him!” Laird Panlamaris howled, but those soldiers around him seemed frozen, awestruck, as were the witnesses within Chapel Abelle.

  “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!” Brother Fatuus sang, joined by a dozen other prisoners of Laird Panlamaris, who began to walk toward Chapel Abelle.

  Spears reached for them. Riders broke from Panlamaris’s ranks, running down the brothers, cutting them down with heavy bronze swords. But not one stopped chanting until the moment of his death. Not one cried for mercy or in pain.

  Ahead of them Brother Fatuus, impaled by seven heavy spears, kept walking and singing. A rider bore down on the monk.

  “Shoot him dead!” Father Artolivan shouted.

  “Stop him!” Cadayle screamed.

  “We can’t reach!” Brother Jurgyen cried in reply. All winced at the expected moment of Fatuus’s death.

  Suddenly the rider’s mount stopped and bucked, then spun about, hurling him to the ground. The horse began pawing the ground wildly, kicking and neighing as if it had gone mad. The swordsman crawled away, dragging a broken leg.

  “My prophet, my saint, oma tula mere!” Brother Fatuus cried in glory and passion.

  “Open the gate! The gate!” men shouted while others ran for the huge beam that sealed Chapel Abelle’s massive doors.

  When at last it opened, there knelt Brother Fatuus, a look of complete serenity on his pale face. “Oma tula mere,” he rasped.

  And then he died.

  Across the field Laird Panlamaris began his charge, hundreds of Palmaristown soldiers churning the ground beneath their running feet and the hooves of their mounts and chariot teams.

  The monks dragged Fatuus inside and scrambled to close and secure the gate. All eyes turned to Father Artolivan.

  “Turn them,” he grimly instructed. “With all the power of beloved Abelle—nay, of Saint Abelle, for we have seen now his miracle, turn them!”

  Grim-faced, the brothers began sorting their gemstones, holding back until Brother Pinower gave the call.

  A barrage of lightning reached out from Chapel Abelle the likes of which had never before been seen in Honce. When at last the flashes ceased and the ground stopped shaking and the spots no longer danced before their eyes, many men were down, crawling, writhing, burning. The charge had turned to retreat.

  “You are besieged!” Laird Panlamaris cried in outrage. “You shall never leave!”

  Old Father Artolivan, feeling strangely alive at that terrible moment, did not reply, silencing any responses from monk or Vanguardsman. He watched Panlamaris for only a moment before his reverent gaze shifted below to where brethren and prisoners from Ethelbert and Delaval alike knelt around Brother Fatuus in shared prayer.

  Y

  our allegiance in the face of Laird Panlamaris has renewed my hope, Lady of Vanguard,” Father Artolivan said to Gwydre as the group of leaders made their way across the courtyard toward the main chapel. Across the field Panlamaris’s army was at work setting tents, though many, including the laird himself, had moved down to the small town of Weatherguard.

  “The inspiration for this day belongs to a monk I do not know,” Gwydre replied. She nodded her chin toward the courtyard, where Brother Fatuus lay wrapped in a decorative shroud of the type used for a church father.

  A large group had gathered on the far side of the courtyard. It seemed as if all the prisoners were there. Before them a pair of their ranks stood speaking with Brother Pinower.

  “I would ask one more thing of you, Dame Gwydre,” said Artolivan. “Laird Panlamaris will not be foolish enough to assail your ships, so your way home is all but assured. I ask you to take these men, Laird Ethelber
t’s at least, so that they may be spared the fate King Yeslnik has decreed. They deserve better.”

  Dame Gwydre turned to stare directly at the old father. Everyone else stopped as well, hanging on her every word, confused by the wry smile she wore.

  “Good Father Artolivan, I would ask a favor of you,” she said. He looked at her curiously, which seemed to please her greatly, as if she wanted this to be a surprise.

  “Privately,” she added.

  “Of course.”

  The group moved toward the gathered prisoners and Brother Pinower.

  “What trouble, Brother?” Father Artolivan asked.

  “None, Father. This is Malcombe of Delaval City and Elefreth Pavu of Ethelbert dos Entel,” he said, indicating a sturdy man with piercing blue eyes and curly black hair, the classic Delaval specimen. The other was a swarthy man, no less striking or imposing, obviously of the south and perhaps with a bit of Behrenese blood in him.

  “Of course. Greetings to both of you this troubling day,” said Artolivan. “The events have unsettled you, no doubt.”

  “We know of King Yeslnik’s demands,” Malcombe said.

  “Yes.”

  Malcombe straightened his shoulders. “I was a knight in Laird Delaval’s army,” he said. “Among the elite warriors who rode with Delaval himself.”

  “This, too, is known to me,” said Artolivan. “I am not so old as to have forgotten your pomposity on the day you arrived here at Chapel Abelle, all broken and outraged.”

  That seemed to shrink the proud warrior a bit, but he managed a smile. “Broken and near death, and, save the work of your brothers, I would surely have gone to my grave.”

  “Praise Abelle that you did not.”

  “I do,” said Malcombe with a simple sincerity that added great weight to the statement. He nodded at Artolivan, then turned to his fellow Delaval prisoners watching from afar. To a one they signaled their agreement with him, with whateverr pact had brought him to stand before Artolivan at this time.

  “I—we—ask that you do not turn over my friend Elefreth and the other good men of Laird Ethelbert,” Malcombe said.

  More than a few of those with Artolivan gasped.

  “Most of us have been here for more than a year, some for nearly two,” Malcombe explained. “We have been treated well by the brothers, and we have come to know one another as friends and companions, not as enemies.”

  “We will fight one another no longer,” said Elefreth with a heavy Entel accent.

  “I expected as much and am glad for you that you have found your way from the darkness,” Father Artolivan told them. “I was just now arranging with Dame Gwydre passage for all of you, or at least for those condemned by King Yeslnik’s wrongful order, to Vanguard and freedom.”

  Malcombe and Elefreth looked at each other, a flash of hope fast giving way to looks of grim determination.

  “I would let my men make that decision,” said Malcombe.

  “And I mine,” Elefreth agreed.

  “But this is my home, and I will not leave it now,” said Malcombe. “Particularly not now.”

  “What then?” asked Father Artolivan. “To return to your respective lairds that you may be once more pressed into battle?”

  “Nay, never that,” said Malcombe, Elefreth nodding with every word. “For too long we’ve been fighting and bleeding and dying for the wants of the lairds.”

  “And you are weary of the battle, understandably so,” said Artolivan. “But what, then? Do you ask to live out your lives here in Chapel Abelle?”

  Malcombe straightened again, as did Elefreth, and behind them, all the prisoners, hundreds of warriors, stood as one and at rigid attention.

  “Not weary of the battle,” Malcombe corrected. “Weary of the cause.”

  “There is no cause in their battle,” Elefreth agreed.

  “But we’re ready to fight if that’s what is needed,” said Malcombe.

  “To fight? For whom?”

  “For ourselves!” a man shouted from the ranks, and others cheered and agreed.

  “To fight for you!” said another. “And for those monks, and for that one, Fatuus, who just showed us a good way to die!”

  The cheering erupted at that, so sudden and heartfelt that Artolivan’s eyes, and those of all around him, grew wet with tears.

  “We are here at your call, trusting in your judgment,” said Malcombe. “If you arm us and send us forth, we will crack open Laird Panlamaris’s siege. Perhaps we could go out as if freed and chase them from the field as they naively welcome us into their ranks.”

  Father Artolivan was emphatically waving his hands to stop the line of thinking, for it was all too sudden for him and too overwhelming. He looked to Dame Gwydre for support.

  “You are men I would be proud to have in Vanguard,” she said. She and Artolivan retreated fast for his private quarters, with Dawson and Brother Jond in tow.

  I

  t is all so unsettling,” Callen said as she sat with Cadayle, Cormack, and Milkeila. “This day, I mean.”

  “We have witnessed the depths of treachery, the horror of inhumanity, the miracle of faith, and the hope of men’s souls in the span of a single hour,” said Cormack.

  “I have seen it before, on a warm lake in the north,” Milkeila added, tossing a wink at her husband, who nodded his agreement. “I am no longer surprised by the potential and the depths of the hearts of men.”

  “What will it all mean?” asked Cadayle. “How will it end?”

  Brother Pinower walked over as she spoke. He regarded the four before nodding his chin toward a small window in the tower of the large chapel. “They are seeking the answers to that question even as you speak,” he said.

  “You know Father Artolivan well,” said Cormack. “What will he do?”

  “You know Dame Gwydre. What of her?”

  Cormack smiled and pondered the question for a few moments, then smiled with confidence. “She will not abandon Father Artolivan to the whims of King Yeslnik. Of that I am sure.”

  “Perhaps the whole of our church will flock to Vanguard, and southern Honce be damned,” said Brother Giavno.

  “And what would you do, Brother, if it were up to you?” Cormack asked him pointedly. For a brief moment, all felt the tension in the air. This man, a disciple of Father De Guilbe, had whipped Cormack to within an inch of his life on De Guilbe’s command.

  “I would not have left Mithranidoon, save to follow Cormack and Bransen to the glacier and Ancient Badden,” Giavno replied. “Or at least I pray that had the decision fallen to me I would have had the courage of Cormack and Milkeila.” Embarrassed by the reminder of his previous failures, he bowed then and started away.

  But Cormack called him back. “Sit with us,” he bade the man who had once been his mentor, who had once been his friend, who had nearly been his executioner. “Let us solve the problems of the world and muse on the miracle of Brother Fatuus.”

  A look reflecting both gratitude and great sadness flashed on Giavno’s face, and he did indeed join them for a discussion that nearly mirrored that taking place behind the window in the tower.

  I

  ask that you allow me to remain here at Chapel Abelle and that my ships can sail north and return, laden with soldiers,” Dame Gwydre said flatly, her tone indicating no sway in her position.

  “Soldiers? To what end?” asked Father Artolivan.

  “To the defense of Chapel Abelle,” Dame Gwydre replied. “To the support of your courage. I had not thought this war of southern Honce to be the affair of Vanguard, but I see now that I was wrong. This is no petty fight between warring lairds. It is a battle for the soul of Honce. And a fight whose victory or loss will determine the future of Vanguard, I do not doubt. For if he wins here, Yeslnik—a man who claims a throne that does not even exist—will turn his eyes and his armies north.”

  “Because you were here when Laird Panlamaris was humiliated, both by Brother Fatuus and by the complete rejection of his
assault,” Father Artolivan reasoned.

  “It would not have mattered,” Gwydre said. “Unless I promised fealty to Yeslnik.”

  “There remains that option.”

  “At the cost of my soul. For how could I give credence and fealty to a man who would murder the men of Ethelbert you hold here? How could I keep my own soul if I were to ally with a man like Panlamaris after what he just did to the innocent brothers of the Chapel of Precious Memories? I will not abandon principle and what is right for political expediency, Father Artolivan. I did not do so when Ancient Badden demanded freedom to continue his reign of terror against the folk of Vanguard. A sorry and false woman I would be to turn my back on my fellows to the south.”

  “This is truly an unexpected day,” said Artolivan. Weary, he moved to his chair. “A day that will echo in the songs of the bards for lifetimes hence, perhaps. Or one that will quickly spell our utter doom. I do not know.”

  “Aye, and that’s where a measure of courage is needed,” said Dawson McKeege. “And without that measure—” he gave a snort to reflect complete disgust “—then what’s worth singing about, anyway?”

  Father Artolivan looked at the man incredulously, but then gave a much needed chuckle of agreement.

  “Do you understand now why I keep him around?” asked Gwydre.

  “Do you understand the magnitude of what you are proposing?”

  “I will annex Chapel Abelle for Vanguard, but fear not, for you will continue with all freedom to do as your heart instructs,” said Gwydre. “My action will be only to reinforce Vanguard’s commitment to you and your brothers.”

  “You will be declaring war with Delaval City and Palmaristown, both of which can muster a garrison much larger than Vanguard’s.”

  “Then we will fight better,” said Gwydre.

  “Or die better,” Dawson added. “Like Brother Fatuus. I’m not knowing how long they will be singing of our choices this day, but the grandsons of the grandsons of the grandsons will be singing of Brother Fatuus. Of that I am sure.”