I drew a dagger. “A touch further.”
“Lad…” Sir Alaric looked my way for support.
“Just a little bit…”
Stephan drove the wagon forth a foot or so. “Now?”
“Yeah.” Standing in the back of the wagon, I slit the ropes binding the crone’s arms to the cross. They stayed in place, still held by the rusted nails. “Timber…” I slit the ropes binding her torso. Her weight was too much for the nails alone, and she tumbled forth like a rotten log. I stepped aside, tried easing her fall but gave up when she slithered from my grip, crashing into the wagon-bed.
“Judas priest, Lou.” Stephan and Sir Alaric both glared.
“What?” I wiped grime on my pant legs.
“Here, take these.” Eyeballing the cross, Stephan handed off the reins to Sir Alaric and clambered into the wagon-bed. He stood by the bare crucifix, peering in the same direction the corpse had. “They’re all facing the same direction.”
“Yeah, so?” I looked up, around, shrugged. “What of it?”
“It’s a message.” Stephan’s eyes narrowed.
“Yeah. It says, ‘Go away.’”
“When we sailed in we couldn’t have seen this from the Abraxas, right?” Stephan pointed west toward the river. “Because of the buildings.”
“Yeah…” I conceded. “We could see the bale-fire’s glow.”
“And we couldn’t see it from up on Gallow’s Tor.” Stephan pointed southwest.
I followed his arm, half hoping to see Karl trudging back. But no such luck. Still off on his errand. I glanced at Sir Alaric. In concert, we both said, “No.”
“I don’t mean to tread on your theory, Sir Alaric.”
“Call me Red, lad.” Sir Alaric winced a smile. “Both o’ you. What my friends called me, back when I had ‘em.”
“Red. Alright.” Stephan patted him on the shoulder. “Could you see them when you went to the old keep? That’s even higher than as Gallow’s Tor.”
I thought for a moment. “No. Probably not.” I looked to Sir Alaric. “Red?”
“Nay, lad.” Sir Alaric pointed to the northeast. “That line of buildings shields it.”
“But you said you saw it last night.” Stephan hopped out of the wagon. “Where were you?”
“The acropolis of the Schloss,” I said, “with the King.”
Stephan stomped to another crucifix, took a bearing, his hook arm aimed out straight. “With these buildings and this angle,” he stomped to another cross, “the only place you can see all of these dead on is from the roof of the Schloss.”
“Dead on, huh?” I smirked. “How about if you’re walking through the square?”
“True. Hmm…” Stephan fingered his lip. “But every one of these corpses is looking, no aimed, directly at the Schloss. If you wanted to send a message to folk in the square—”
“Scare the shit out of them, you mean?”
“Aye. Then would you not face them outward? To ensure that no matter which street were taken in — there’s six, mind you — you’d be confronted by the dead?” Stephan stomped across the way. “Look. If you come in from the south or east as we did, you see only their backs. The only direction you’re truly confronted by the full brunt is Nail Street. There.” He took another bearing. “In line with the Schloss’s sight-line.”
“More or less,” I admitted.
Sir Alaric clambered from the wagon and trudged over, following Stephan’s outstretched arm then whistled. “You’ve a keen eye, lad, mark my words.”
“So what?” I crossed my arms. “So, it’s a message. To the King? A warning?”
“Perhaps…” Stephan glared up at another corpse.
“Perhaps? Are you fucking serious? We’ve a dozen crucified corpses all pointing one way. What the hell else could it mean? Keep up the good work?”
“I think we need to keep looking.”
“Alright. Sure. Yeah.” I gave the horse a quick glance to make sure it didn’t look like bolting, then stood up and examined the cross.
“See anything?” Stephan called over.
“Not through the stink.” I waved a hand. The nails that had been driven through the corpses’ wrists and feet had pulled through when she fell. “Let’s just get this done with, yeah?”
We droned on in corpse-borne misery, pulling down the dead until we’d finally reached the last one.
“Almost…” I gritted my teeth as I sawed away at the rope holding up the last poor bastard. “Hmm… What the—?” I leaned in, squinting. “They pulled this poor fucker’s teeth out.” He was a well-dressed fella, his high-collared frock of quality make though death and despair and weather had robbed the wind from its sails. His gaunt face stared impassively as I cut away the last of his bonds. “Timber—” I stepped aside.
But the corpse didn’t fall.
“Huh…? Must’ve been a carpenter hammered this bastard in.” I checked his hands, prying them clean off the nails. “What the…?” Still, he didn’t fall. “Only thing holding him up’s, what?” I checked him head to toe. “Another bloody miracle?”
“Nay, lad,” Sir Alaric pointed with the stem of his pipe, “you missed one.”
“Huh?” I stepped back, rolling an ankle on the corpse pile. “Where—?”
“Rose of Sharon…” Stephan crossed himself.
“A big one,” Sir Alaric said. “Dead center.”
Just protruding from the corpse’s chest, and what I had initially taken for a frock button, was the beaten head of an iron stake driven clean through the corpse.
…with gifts of masterwork leather goods and tools of steel and iron, items that were beyond their ken to make. Indeed, they wondered at their construct as well the construct of our arms and…
—War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg
Chapter 21.
SHHH—” Lady Mary pressed a finger to her lips as I closed the door, my arms overflowing with fresh linen and blankets. Ruth lay abed next to Abraham, clutching his hand, staring at the ceiling, unblinking, numb, her soft hummed mumbling interspersed between Abraham’s staccato snores.
Lady Mary stormed silently across the room and took the linen. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
Joshua sat at a table, still reading from the worn old copy of the Talmud. Sarah leaned draping against his back, swaying, squinting over his shoulder, her lips moving as she sounded out words.
I winked at Lady Mary, cocked my head towards the doorway.
Lady Mary set the linen down then followed me into the hall. “How did your meeting go?”
“Meeting?” I raised an eyebrow.
The hallway was empty. Dinner was nigh upon us and most of the servants off hustling.
“With the Nazarene?” Lady Mary said.
“Oh that. Yeah.” I chuffed a cold laugh. “About as well as everything else.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. But we’re all still here. Still alive.”
I hoped.
Cause Karl should’ve been back by now. He’d been gone all day. Deep breath… The shit I’d give him if those fuckers crucified him. “Ruth’s finally trying to knock off? Good. I was worried.”
“I still am.” Lady Mary pulled the door almost closed. “She won’t sleep. She never does. She merely lies there humming, staring, mumbling.”
“Maybe I can find an apothecary?” I offered.
“No. It’s not that.” Lady Mary rubbed the back of her neck. “Well, it is but — you heard that jibe from von Madbury at dinner last night?”
“My new best friend?” I said. “Yeah. I heard it.”
“He’s trouble, mark my words. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them.”
“I’m right there with you,” I said.
Lady Mary appraised me like a woman poised to buy a horse and just noticing a cracked hoof. “And the Queen…” She glanced down the hallway. “Is there something between you two? Some history?”
“Huh?” My face felt suddenly hot.
She crossed her arms and glared.
“Yeah. Alright.” I cracked my fingers, feeling red. The past night flashed through my mind, the Queen on tiptoe, leaning in, her scent enveloping me. “It was barely anything. Just kid stuff. From a long while back. I was kind to her is all.”
“You?”
“Jesus Christ,” I scowled. “Yeah me.”
“It isn’t safe here.”
“Yeah. No shit. Where is it safe?”
“I think I’ll remain here during dinner.” Lady Mary glanced one way down the hall then the other. “I … I don’t think I could bring myself to eat.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Figured you’d be itching to get free. Kick off your work shoes, doff your maid’s apron, sup with the betters.” What I didn’t say was that she was gonna miss one hell of a dinner-show.
“I don’t know. I can’t place it. But there’s … something wrong with this place.”
With visions of loaded crosses skirting through my mind, I didn’t argue the point.
Lady Mary fingered her wooden hand. “How fares the Ulysses?”
“Finally hauled up in dry-dock. Chadwicke’s checking her over. Avar’s probably getting in his way.” I sighed. “She needs to be refitted. At the very least. Good news is the one thing Haeskenburg has in abundance, besides crippling mediocrity, is lumber. Gonna be a while, though. A month at the least. Probably more.”
“I can scarcely believe it.”
“Yeah. I know. Mediocrity’s a vast overstatement.”
She shook her head, almost cracking a smirk, though it could have been my imagination. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“No. You’re doing it.” I nodded toward the room. “They need someone strong looking out for them.”
Lady Mary bit her lip. “Ruth is having some difficulties—”
“She’s nuts on the way to bat-shit crazy,” I finished for her.
“No, it’s that she’s—”
“Under an unreasonable amount of strain.” I held my hands up. “It’s no dig. Believe me. I’d have cut and run long before if I were wearing her shoes. But she’s fixed on standing there, Atlas to the world on her shoulders. Crushing her by degrees.” And degrees was generous. And by generous, I meant total bullshit.
Watching Ruth was like watching a sapped wall start to give. You can’t see it initially, but you feel it. The ground shivering beneath your feet. Next, you hear it. The rumble as the supports yawn, bend, cave, hidden stones shifting, mortar drizzling rivulets of crumble. The ground’s trembling hard now, bucking beneath your feet in anticipation of the big show.
“I’ve seen von Madbury skulking about.” Lady Mary frowned.
“I’ll have Karl here as much as possible. Do what we can. But we’re in it now.” I glanced at her wooden hand. “Might want to keep the hook one on.”
She looked away. “It’s monstrous.”
“Yeah. Exactly. We need more of that on our side.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yeah, one thing.” I unslung a satchel and dug a trio of books out. “Here. It’s a copy of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and The Canterbury Tales. And an Old Testament.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I borrowed them from the library. And by borrow I mean stole.”
“I thank you but,” she looked annoyed, “I have no time to read—”
“For them. The kids. They’ve been reading the damned Talmud for nigh on over a month.” I laid a hand to my chest. “I mean, I’ve never read it myself, but I imagine it’s boring as shit the first time around. And having to read it five hundred times? Day in and day out…?”
Lady Mary raised a hand. “I gather your meaning.” She accepted the books and fanned pages of The Canterbury Tales. “Hmm… I’ve never read it.”
“Well, there’s some parts in it they maybe shouldn’t read. The Wife of Bath. The Shipman’s Tale, too.” I tapped a finger against my lips. “Maybe a few others? Maybe you should just read it to them.” I glanced inside the door. Ruth was still mumbling. Was it prayer? “Best ask Ruth first, though, at any rate.”
“Certainly.”
“And tell her Stephan brought it, yeah?”
“Yes. Of course.” Lady Mary made to close the door. “Now if that is all?” She tucked the books underarm as Joshua poked his head out.
“Hi, Mister Luther,” he beamed.
“Hey, kid.” My stomach rumbled. Dinner. Part of me was looking forward to it. The other part was smart. “Maybe I can snatch you some paint from Sir Alaric.” I straightened and slid my hand over my heart. “You could paint my portrait.”
“Back inside, children.” With a look of consternation, Lady Mary laid a hand on Joshua’s shoulder and drew him back in the room. “I thank you for the kindness, Sir Luther.”
“See? It’s possible.”
Lady Mary bowed her head. “I apologize.”
Sarah peered from behind Lady Mary’s legs. Wide-eyed, she offered a tepid wave of only her fingertips.
“Greetings, milady.” I winked.
Sarah giggled.
“Inside, children. Please.”
Sarah disappeared and Joshua materialized almost immediately.
Lady Mary rolled her eyes. “Judas Priest.”
“Relax,” I said. “I’d have been crawling up the walls or setting fires if I were them.”
Sarah reappeared by her brother.
I smirked. “You want to hear a joke?”
Lady Mary stepped in, “I don’t think your jokes would be—”
“Relax. Jesus. Am I a cretin?” I held up a hand. “Don’t answer that.”
Lady Mary crossed her arms and stood back.
“So, these two muffins were sitting in an oven.” I held up two fingers. “The first muffin says, Dear me, it’s certainly getting hot in here.” I dug a finger into my collar, panted, fanned my face.
“Huh?” Joshua glanced up.
“It’s a joke, Joshie.” Sarah elbowed him.
“And the second muffin points at the first and yells, ‘Jesus Christ, a talking muffin!’”
Sarah’s face lit up like the sun. She covered her mouth and giggled. Joshua, stunned at first, finally got it, snickering after a moment. “Muffins can’t talk.”
Lady Mary, offering a sardonic smirk of her own, herded the children back into the room. “Go sit down. Please. Joshua— Put that down. I’ll be back in a moment.” Lady Mary glanced over at Ruth. “Best you be back on your way. Wouldn’t want to be late for dinner.”
“Prince Eventine’s gonna be sore about you not showing up.” I shook my head. “Queen’s sniffing around for a match, too.”
“A match for the Prince?” Lady Mary raised an eyebrow. “Or a match for her?”
…effort it had been, between the King of Hungary and the Grandmaster of the Teutonics. This was before the Great Schism, before the lies, the sundered trust, before the bloodshed. In those days, it was the pagan savages whose blood alone we spilled.
T’was a far simpler time.
—War-Journal of Prince Ulrich of Haeskenburg
Chapter 22.
YOU ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN you ain’t French?” I snarled. “Cause that was some of the timeliest cowardice I’ve ever seen. And could you please pass the bloody salt?”
Sir Gustav sat across from me, his fingertips digging into the table, glowering beneath that one huge caterpillar eyebrow stretched across his awesome forehead.
“And you,” I ground my teeth von Madbury’s way, “is it the eye-patch that makes you a shit? Cause I’ve never known a fucker wearing one who wasn’t.”
Von Madbury wiped his beard down with one hand, a sneer contorting his mug. “You insufferable—”
“Dietrick. Sir Luther. Please—” The Queen raised a hand.
“You’re a pair of yellow bastards.” I scowled down the table at Brother Miles, Harwin, Sir Roderick, and the rest of them. “And that goes for you, too.”
Lady Ludmilla fanned
the Lady Tourmaline, who had swooned precipitously.
“Gentlemen!” Prince Palatine lurched onerously to his feet.
No one listened. No one cared. Prince Eventine raised a hand, murmuring something lost in the wash.
Von Madbury took a gulp of wine, biding his time. Letting it build.
Sir Gustav was not. He stuttered in wild mania, unable to vomit word or meaning out of the great big empty hole situated in the middle of his stupid face. He was seconds from launching himself across the table. Von Madbury laid a hand gripping into Sir Gustav’s shoulder, muttering a jaw-full of something awful.
Sir Gustav froze at the touch, eyes blazing, a sneer creasing slow and malign across his thick lips. “Aye.” He nodded to himself, no doubt untangling the miasma of convoluted thought cobwebbing the jagged innards of his hollow ogre skull. “I challenge you to a duel, you … you filthy skunk.”
“Skunk?” I slapped the table. “Jesus Christ. Are you serious?” I turned to Lady Ludmilla. “Is he fucking serious?”
“I-I—” Lady Ludmilla gasped, still fanning her friend.
“I believe he is, brother.” Stephan frowned. He wasn’t enjoying this. But then, I didn’t expect him to be. Truth be told, neither was I, but I was faking it as best I could. Sir Gustav might’ve been a great-big oaf, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t adept at killing. Great-big oafs made some of the very best killers the world had to offer. But I knew now, for sure, that it’d been Von Madbury who’d sealed the deal. Von Madbury who’d pulled the strings. Von Madbury who’d left us high and dry at the Nazarene’s tender mercy. Sir Gustav was just his oafish pawn.
“Could you take it down a rung?” Stephan said sidelong. “Please.”
There were seven of the King’s men on the far side of the table. On mine? Me and Karl and Stephan and the ladies-in-waiting whom I was fair sure were looking to trade sides. Not that I blamed them. Stephan was near-worthless in a fight and while Karl was worth any three of the others, that left four to me unless Lady Ludmilla proved aces at fisticuffs. It seemed unlikely.
“There’ll be no dueling.” Sir Alaric limped into the hall, looking like a scarecrow with the stuffing kicked out. “How many fighting men are we? And how many are they outside the bleedin’ walls?” As Sir Gustav started counting on his sausage fingers, Sir Alaric snarled, “Not enough to be losing any of us, you fool. We’ve murderers and maniacs loose and you’re fixed on killing each other. Lord grant me strength.” He leaned his cane against his chair. “Now, grab some pine and shut yer gob unless you’re stuffing it with grub.”
The Last Benediction in Steel Page 14