“We don’t look like much more than poor beggars ourselves.” Val-Draekin hustled his step, drawing up beside the girl, injured foot dragging in the dust. One of the horses whinnied and stepped aside for him.
“Easy, boy.” Bronwyn gripped the reins, soothing the horse with a soft whistle. “With no coin or anything to trade, how do you expect to purchase mounts?”
“It’ll be dark soon,” the Vallè answered. “We can sneak about, steal some mounts, better weapons too, more suitable clothes for Nail and me.”
“Oh, let’s do,” Bronwyn said gleefully. “A bit of thievery and we shall fit right in with the locals, no?”
Her oghul companion turned his thick neck. “Cromm will help in this theft.” His passive eyes were on Nail. “It will be good to get the marked one a horse.”
Bronwyn said, “Cromm is greatly looking forward to being added into the oral history of his kind for his accomplishment. Escorting the marked one to Amadon for Fiery Absolution is a big deal for an oghul like him.” She cast a wry grin at Nail. “He shall be a legend.”
“I can’t tell if you are being serious,” Val-Draekin commented.
“A Vallè who cannot tell if he is being played a fool?” Bronwyn laughed. “Now that’s a first.”
“What’s not to understand?” The oghul grinned too, thick gray tongue licking out over swollen gums before slipping back in. “Cromm said he will help in the theft, and so he will help. And then he will take the marked one to Amadon.”
“Cromm’s an honest pirate and an even honester oghul,” Bronwyn added. “He can always be taken at his word. But if you’re gonna go a-thieving with the likes of us, we must get one thing straight, Ser Vallè.”
“And what is that?” Val-Draekin asked.
“You will be letting me pick the mark.” Her shaded eyes narrowed. “You see, Cromm and I have the Pirate’s Honor. A fair fight and Blood Price are the pirate’s way. We don’t sneak about like thieves in the dark. We choose a mark equal to us in numbers, and we will always meet a man face-to-face when appropriating items against his will.”
“But why place yourself at even the slightest disadvantage?” the Vallè asked.
“Who says we place ourselves at a disadvantage?” Bronwyn’s eyes were dark slits, never wavering from the Vallè. “Luck is always on the side of those willing to look into the eyes of those they take from.”
† † † † †
They finally came upon a stable, a low gabled barn crisscrossed with dark ribs of timber at the end of a half-cobbled street. A squat, derelict cottage of stone and thatch hunkered just behind it. Horses could be seen within stable, dark shadows in the gaps between the wood slats. There was a sign over the barn’s double-wide door that read, HORSES FOR SALE. PONIES AND PACK MULES WANTD FOR TRADE. MUSK OX NEITHER BOUGHT NOR SOLD NOR TRADED NOR EVEN WANTED.
There were three burly men lounging on a bench against the barn’s outer wall, mercenaries from the look of it, rough leather armor and shortswords at their hips. All three were shaggy-haired and bearded. A fourth man, bald and bare of shirt and very muscular, stood directly under the barn’s sign with his back to them. He was pounding a hunk of metal over a waist-high anvil with a giant iron sledge.
“We’re requisitioning a few of your mounts,” Bronwyn said upon their approach.
The bald man turned, sledge now in one hand. He was wearing an apron tied at the neck, the front of it charred and filthy. His pants and boots were also a good deal soiled. He had a barrel-like chest and a heavy-looking head, face round and fleshy. His flat eyes appraised the oghul first before falling on Nail and then the girl. His eyes lingered on the Vallè last, large fingers curling around the thick haft of his sledge. He swiped beads of sweat from his brow with a rag. “We’re closed for the day,” he said abruptly, and went back to work.
“We’d be obliged if you opened back up,” Bronwyn said. “Sun ain’t down yet anyway. No horse stable I ever heard of closed before dark. Place like this ought to stay open till sundown at the very least, no?”
The mercenaries lounging against the barn exchanged amused looks. The bald man grunted. “I don’t take business advice from little girls with feathers in their hair.”
The girl plowed on, undaunted. “If you’re not going to answer King Jovan’s summons to war, then you’ve no need for any of the horses in that barn. As for my friends and I, we’re heading to Amadon to fight for our country. We need more mounts than just the two we already got.”
“A girl fighter?” The bald man sneered. “You think you’re gonna be a knight?” He eyed them one by one. “A Vallè knight? An oghul, too? I think not, lassie.”
“We will need two mounts,” Bronwyn repeated with a casualness of ease that surprised Nail.
The man’s face flushed. “Bloody rotted angels, I said we’re closed for the day, leastwise for any oghul purchases. Now all of you git.”
“I reckon you don’t understand,” Bronwyn said. “We aim to take two of your horses. Best you order one of your mates to amble on into the barn and get a few ready.”
“Two mounts exact.” Cromm grumbled, the timbre of his voice getting the attention of everyone. Nail and Val-Draekin exchanged a concerned glance as they saw the men’s hands all go to their sword hilts.
The bald man canted his head to the side as he gave Cromm a most unmannerly look. “Can’t you read the sign? I ain’t got no musk ox for oghul purchase.”
“Cromm prefers a horse anyhow,” Bronwyn interjected.
The bald man shook his head. “Had I even a mule or a some half-dead nag, I wouldn’t sell to no bloodsucking oghul.” He eyed the dun-colored stallions behind Bronwyn and Cromm. “Perhaps it’s me that should be requisitioning your horses.”
“Two mounts.” Cromm let go the reins of his horse, holding up two fingers, lips peeling back to expose a row of sharp teeth and inflamed gums. “A horse for the marked one. A horse for the Vallè. Cromm will take something else from you.” The oghul covered the distance between himself and the bald man in two long strides, suddenly face-to-face with the man.
“I said they ain’t for sale.” The bald man stood his ground, gruff with impatience, hand straining at the haft of his huge hammer. “And I ain’t no bloodletter neither so—”
Cromm slapped him across the face. It was a backhanded blow that staggered the man sideways against the barn. The three men on the bench jumped to their feet, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes agleam and ready for a fight. Nail could feel his heart pounding against the inner walls of his chest. He had no real weapon to speak of if it came to a fight, nor did Val-Draekin, just rusted oghul garbage.
The bald man whirled back toward Cromm, eyes blazing, cheek red and welling. “You son of a bitch. You just slapped me in the midst of a civil conversation.”
“Cromm’s a blunt-spoken fellow,” Bronwyn added. “I imagine he just felt the conversation was done.”
One of the three mercenaries drew his sword, held it out, ready.
In one fluid motion, the black longbow was off Bronwyn’s back, a black arrow nocked and aimed at the man who had drawn his blade. “Cromm ain’t one for too much jabber,” she said, pulling back on the bowstring deliberately, the creaking of the bow ominous, dark eyes sighting down the shaft. “Cromm ain’t got time to lavish lengthy conversation on the stubbornness of fools. And this here conversation run itself off the trail some while back. Best you put that poker away and run into that barn and get two horses saddled and ready, else I’m liable to get real testy. Cromm, too.”
“Fuck you, bitch!” the man snarled, and spit directly in her face.
“Shouldn’ta done that.” Bronwyn let the bowstring go.
The black arrow punched straight into the man’s eye socket, knocking him back forcefully, pinning his head against the barn.
As he hung there, the sword slipped from his limp hand.
She just murdered him! Nail’s mind reeled as his heart thundered.
C
romm lunged forward and snatched the bald man in two meaty hands, twisting the man’s head to the side, sinking his fangs into the exposed flesh of his neck.
The man’s body seemed to wilt in the oghul’s arms, all limbs sagging, sledgehammer thudding to the ground in a puff of dust, eyes rolling back into his skull.
Madness! Horrified, Nail nearly vomited.
Bronwyn had another black arrow nocked and pointed at the closest of the two remaining mercenaries. But they were no threat now, both gaping openmouthed at their limp friend and the brute-faced oghul feeding at his neck.
“Cromm was never one to stave his passions.” Bronwyn directed her comment toward Nail. “You’ll have to excuse him this one indulgence.”
Bloodsucking oghul. It was a common enough insult, it held scant meaning. He’d used the slur many times himself. But Cromm was an actual bloodsucking oghul. And Bronwyn murdered that other fellow over a horse!
When Cromm was done feasting, he released the bald man, who folded to the ground in a pitiful heap, pale-faced and clutching at his bleeding neck, wheezing as hard as a horse after a long gallop.
Blood dripped from Cromm’s bulging lips down the front of his armor.
“I suggest you boys go saddle up two horses,” Bronwyn said to the two remaining men. They dropped their swords and bolted down the street, nearly tripping over each other as they went.
“They run away,” Cromm grumbled.
“Reckon we can take what we want, then.” Bronwyn hooked the black longbow to the baldric slung over her back. “We should be fast about it, though. No telling how many ruffians those two are liable to return with.”
Two large strides and the oghul shoved open the barn door, entering.
Bronwyn stooped and picked up two of the swords left by the mercenaries, holding one out for Nail. “Don’t look so squeamish.”
“I’ve seen worse than this.” Nail snatched the sword from her, trying to keep a look of indifference on his face, knowing he did a poor job of it. He looked away, watched the last sliver of the sun ease its way down behind the buildings to the west.
Bronwyn handed the other blade to the Vallè. Val-Draekin took the sword. “You really don’t believe in thieving on the sly, do you?”
“This, you mean?” She motioned to the arrow-stuck mercenary pinned to the barn and the bald-headed fellow still gulping for air at their feet. “This is nothing really. ’Tis all about confidence and looking capable. Besides, when Cromm starts feeding, that’ll startle the will to fight plum out of everyone.”
She tossed a sooty wink at Nail. “Even the most seasoned of combatants blanch at an unscheduled bloodletting.”
* * *
There is a pleasant equality in death, for the king is as dead as the foot soldier or slave. Ye honor the slain by regaling each and all with tales of their glorious deaths. But Raijael shall never be slain, nor shall a drop of his blood be drawn by the hand of man, for he shall remain spotless before all war.
—THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL
* * *
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
MANCELLOR ALLEN
5TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SAINT ONLY CHANNEL
For the last five years there was a desire burning in Mancellor Allen’s soul—a simple yet secret desire. He wished to pray. He wished to drop to his knees and call upon the great One and Only to save him. As the army of Sør Sevier had advanced across the sand—a sunbaked sheet of ocean floor void of all water—he wanted so desperately to do the simple three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart.
But I can’t be seen blaspheming in the eyes of Raijael.
So in lieu of the real thing, he preformed the ritual in his head—just as he had done a thousand times before. And for what it was, the prayer gave him some measure of comfort, calming his mind, readying him for another battle he did not wish to fight.
He seldom wanted to fight. But it looked like he must, for the army of Gul Kana was lined up before them in the sand before Aeros Raijael, some two hundred thousand men, not even half of them ahorse.
It is a cursed day. He felt the cursedness of it deep down in his bones. Mancellor was a patient soul who trusted in intuition and believed deeply in symbols and omens. And something felt wrong about the coming battle. But what can a lone man do? Besides, despite his current rank, he knew he was really naught but a Sør Sevier slave; the brand on the underside of his wrist marked him as such.
Sør Sevier soldiers receded into the distance behind him, teeming legions of mounted knights stretched to the left and to the right for miles. Squires. Hounds. Rowdies. Knights of the Blue Sword. Across the vast expanse of crusted sand the warriors of Aeros Raijael were a glittering wave of looming death near a quarter million strong, a sparkling iron-tipped forest of spears and plumed helms, alive and moving. Banners and battle standards fluttered above. Every knight rode straight and tall atop a huge warhorse, face obscured behind the blackened eye slits of a glistening helm. Gleaming plates of armor sheltered their mounts’ foreheads whilst iron-studded armor flapped against lathered flanks and legs. War paint streaked each steed’s sweaty hide in random patterns, spirals around their eyes, ears dyed white and rimmed in blue.
Like thunder, they advanced over the sand at a heavy gait, churning the seabed up behind them. Bagpipers, trumpeters, and drummers brought up the rear whilst archers comprised the front ranks with the Angel Prince and his Knights Archaic; Mancellor, Hammerfiss, Enna Spades, and Ivor Jace, all on white stallions. Mancellor’s own steed, Shine, was a mountain of solid muscle under him, his only reassurance, perhaps his only friend. The Gallows Haven boy, Jenko Bruk, rode beside Aeros, a bulky canvas sack strapped to the flanks of his dun-colored charger. The black-clad Spiderwood on his Bloodeye beast rode beside Jenko.
As Mancellor well knew, this was an army accustomed to war, a veteran and merciless crusading force of both men and women that reveled in naught but destruction and slaughter. And though he would fight beside them today, and though he had fought beside them for the past five years, Mancellor considered every one of them his enemy. For to him, they had always appeared and acted more like demons from the underworld than honorable men and women of flesh and blood. The glistening horde surrounding him was what pure death looked like, a grim reminder of the lessons of arduous truths inscribed within The Way and Truth of Laijon, that the wraiths of death stalk every life, everywhere.
The precarious strip of ocean that separated Saint Only from Lord’s Point was naught but dried sand now, patchy with matted seaweed and puddles of seawater, the ebbing tide having receded to both the north and the south—as it had each afternoon for a handful of hours every day since the dawn of time. The Angel Prince’s Army would have to cross the ten-mile stretch of land quickly, for the return tide could be unpredictable in its swift arrival, surging to fifteen feet deep or more in less than half an hour.
When they had first started across the sands, the coastline around the city of Lord’s Point had been a distant, undulating haze, bereft of human activity of any kind, a haphazard patchwork of gray stone buildings interspersed with hundreds of wharfs and boardwalks and quays and thousands of small boats of every kind. There were no large ships docked in Lord’s Point, for even at high tide the water was too shallow.
With about a mile left to go before reaching Lord’s Point, Aeros slowed his gait, his army reining up behind him.
“Ah, splendid!” Mancellor heard Hammerfiss shout with gruff enthusiasm. “The bastards mean to fight us after all!”
Judging from the size and makeup of the Gul Kana host spilling forth from Lord’s Point, Mancellor hoped it would be a swift battle. Aeros had more than two hundred thousand soldiers behind him, whereas the fighting force that poured from Lord’s Point looked to be less than a third of that, perhaps a quarter. And as the distance closed between the two armies, Mancellor could tell, most of the opposition was afoot, only several thousand were ahorse or even wearing full ar
mor fit for a knight at all. Despite their lack, they presented a bristling hedge, and Mancellor still felt ill at ease, for they were stalled in the middle of the strait.
Still, Aeros awaited them. And the Gul Kana army eventually came to a stop some two-thousand paces away, just out of arrow range.
“A bloody fight indeed,” Hammerfiss gleefully announced.
“And I imagine not a woman fighter among them,” Spades muttered with disdain.
Two horsemen broke from the opposing throng and rode straight for Aeros and his Knights Archaic, one in black armor, one in blue livery. The knight in blue carried a banner of truce, white fabric flapping above his silvery helm.
“We shall ride out to meet them! Knights Archaic, follow me!” Aeros spurred his horse to a trot, the rattle of harness and armor sounding in his wake, wondrous hair flowing out behind him, billowing white and splendorous in the wind. He wore a light tunic of chain mail under a cloak of white and a sword at his hip. Mancellor spurred his horse forward, following Hammerfiss, Spades, and Ivor Jace.
Ivor, the newest member of Aeros’ Knights Archaic, carried a shield and a longsword hooked to the baldric stretched over his back. Hammerfiss carried a huge ball mace wrapped with spikes in one hand, and in the other a massive silver shield with a heavy iron boss painted blue. Enna Spades, longsword buckled to her hip, carried a crossbow and quiver of thick quarrels strapped to her back.
When Aeros’ contingent reined their mounts before the two knights from Gul Kana, both men removed their helms. Mancellor recognized one of the knights as Leif Chaparral, his black-lacquered armor and silver surcoat dusted with sand, the silver-wolf-on-a-maroon-field crest marked him as Rivermeade nobility. A sword with a black opal-inlaid pommel hung at his side. Mancellor had met the Prince of Rivermeade twice before, once during a parley in Aeros’ tent, then again in Ravenker with Jondralyn Bronachell. That was also the last time Mancellor had seen Gault Aulbrek or Aeros’ blue sword, Sky Reaver.
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