A Plague of Swords

by Miles Cameron

  Kronmir nodded. He looked at Giselle, his almost blank eyes betraying satisfaction.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Was that bravura?” she asked. “What was the point?”

  Kronmir straightened his back. “You were right. We hurt them, and this reaction is anger,” he said.

  They turned and rode another league, and then Kronmir slowed his horse and looked back.

  The phalanx of not-dead had stopped. But over the distant mountains circled a great black bird of ill omen, rising against the northwestern sky that was already tinged with the salmon-orange of summer sunset. Even as he watched, the black smudge turned and began coming toward them, a speck against the brilliant western sky.

  “I don’t like that,” Kronmir said.

  Giselle stopped, looked under her hand, and spat.

  “What?” Kronmir asked.

  “It’s enormous,” she said. “I can’t get a sense of...it must be huge. Look at it.”

  “I agree. Let’s ride,” Kronmir said.

  “It is fast, too,” Giselle said. She sounded more tired than scared. “Damn.”

  They turned their horses and rode, flat-out; a dead gallop along the river. Twice Kronmir looked back. Both times, the enormous carrion bird, or whatever it was, was closer. Night was coming. They first star appeared, and the long twilight of a summer night began.

  When they came to the bridge, and the flowing water, and the grave of the little girl, Kronmir called out.

  “Your way,” he said.

  “It is slower,” she said. “In fifteen minutes it will be difficult to see under the trees.”

  “Good,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You think it has to see us?”

  Kronmir wasn’t able to conjure a confident smile. “I’d like to think so,” he said. He withdrew the third of Master Petrarcha’s workings from his belt purse, invoked a prayer that was entirely voluntary, and dashed the jewel against the stone of the bridge.

  As if he had sown the proverbial dragon’s teeth, the simulacrum sprang to life; this time it was three of them, and they took up a little too much space for the roadbed of the old bridge.

  He didn’t have time to adjust the working. He turned, and they went up the ridge as the great wings beat behind them, and they were under the oak tree canopy before the dark thing entered the valley behind them. Kronmir looked back in time to see a shape from nightmare cresting the last ridge; he’d never seen anything like it, and he had an impression of titanic size, of a wingtip of fantastic dimension. Strips of flesh hung from it, and there were gaps in the fabric of its wings.

  He had difficulty breathing. The thing was out of all proportion to his idea of the world.

  The thing’s sinuous, impossible neck moved, and the head turned to the bridge, and it stooped.

  “Go!” Kronmir said, and they bolted over the ridge even as they heard the bridge crack as the thing’s weight crashed into it.

  They made the crest of the ridge, and the monster was still savaging the bridge. It was breathing something that smelled of rot and acid and roared like a furnace casting bronze.

  Twilight deepened, and night was close.

  “I think it can also see hermetical power,” Kronmir said, looking back. “So if you have any items on you, I suggest you leave them here.”

  He reached into his saddlebag and produced a small bronze pot, which he threw into the trees.

  “What was that?” she asked. “I have an amulet.”

  “Throw it away,” he said.

  She hesitated.

  “It didn’t save you from the worms,” he said ruthlessly.

  She ripped open her shirt and pulled a chain over her head.

  And then they rode along the ridge. They didn’t gallop, and they were cautious when they came to open ground, but they moved deeper into the trees when they could.

  Evening made its subtle change toward night, shadows deepened and the stars lit the east, and they could hear the beat of the great wings, somewhere to the north.

  “And you wanted to go to Arles,” she said, at one point.

  “What the hell is that thing?” he asked.

  “I assume it is a dragon,” she said. “It is as long as a war galley.” She sounded cheerful.

  Kronmir made a face. “I have never seen a dragon,” he said. “But this is not what I have been led to expect.” He wrinkled his nose. “And it smells.”

  They rode on.

  When the moon rose, they halted and changed horses again. Both of them fed their horses and watered them at a tiny rivulet, and both of them filled their canteens.

  “I begin to be cautiously optimistic,” Kronmir said.

  Giselle looked up in time to see the stars go out to the west.

  “It is hunting us,” she said very quietly. “Damn it. I want a weapon that will harm it. I hate feeling this helpless. Like prey.”

  “The Duke of Thrake has a weapon that will harm it, and allies,” Kronmir said, watching the Darkness. “He needs to know about this.”

  “I’m in favour of our surviving to tell him,” she said.

  “We should split up. One of us will make it. I don’t think it will leave the Darkness.”

  Giselle laughed in the dark. “Why?” she asked. “Why should it stop at the edge of the Darkness?”

  He cursed. Then, more mildly, he said, “Well, I don’t care to split, anyway. Only you know the terrain.”

  “I know a ranger post...” She sighed. “I do not like to go to a bolt-hole and wait for death. That’s not my way. But if we can wait it out...”

  “How far?” he asked.

  “Come on,” she said.

  They rode along another ridge, trusting the horses to pick their way through deep woods. The woods were open, with little undergrowth, and some moonlight penetrated the canopy, and so did the sound of great wings beating.

  Twice they halted, with the shards of moonlight leaving bright patterns on each other’s faces; the first time for water, the second time when Giselle admitted she had lost her way.

  “It is all so different in the dark,” she said.

  She tethered her horse and walked up and down while Kronmir’s heart beat too fast and he watched.

  There was a cry. It wasn’t far, and it was long, terrifyingly loud, inhuman, a rising scream with a breathy quality...

  EEARRGGGGGGGAAAA

  And the sound of the wings, everywhere, and Kronmir’s spare horse spooked, ripped the reins from his hand, and ran.

  Kronmir hung on to his remaining horse grimly, and when Giselle’s reins showed signs of strain he stopped calming his own horse and went to her two, murmuring, muttering...

  There was a scream, abruptly cut off. Not far.

  The horse. The monster had taken the horse.

  Kronmir readied his tiny crossbow with shaking hands. He had to kneel, breathe deeply, think of nothing...nothing...nothing...

  He stilled his hands, and very, very carefully he put the small steel bolt tipped in black into the weapon. His last poison bolt. The last tin of the nightmare stuff was somewhere else in the woods; its dark hermetical aura was probably enough to attract the monster.

  He’d rather hoped the dragon might try to eat it. But it was not a fortunate day, that way.

  He didn’t really think that his tiny balestrino bolt would injure a not-dead creature the size of a war galley. But he felt better having it prepared.

  After some time, he allowed himself to admit that Giselle had been gone too long.

  He whispered to the remaining horses, watered them again, as quietly as possible, and thought terrible thoughts. Temptations arose in legions; to walk off and find her, which was a foolish notion; to ride for Berona, and abandon her, which was cowardly but at least practical.

  He had to admit that he didn’t want to leave her.

  He examined that for a while. And then realized that more time had passed, and he had not heard wings, and she was still not back. />
  He cursed. He hadn’t slept well in days, and the woods seemed full of ghosts.

  Of course, if the thing got her...it would leave. It didn’t know about him. The worms, whatever they were, only knew her.

  He didn’t think that had been her, screaming. He certainly hadn’t thought so at the time, but his confidence in everything was eroding.

  Kronmir took a deep breath. He began to breathe as he’d been taught, shutting out panic, monsters, Darkness, and Giselle.

  A black mirror.

  ...be the mirror...

  He opened his eyes. It was lighter; just barely, perceptibly, but he was focused and he knew that dawn was less than an hour away.

  It was his duty to take the horses and ride. Stark, obvious. He’d waited three hours. She was dead or lost, and his duty was clear.

  He didn’t move.

  The horses began to shuffle, to be restless, and when he feared they might make noise, he put a corner of his cloak over the geldings’ eyes.

  Then he heard the movement. He glanced without moving his head, and in the morning half light, fifty paces away, he knew her shape.

  He smiled.

  “You waited,” she said, when she was close. She smiled.

  He shrugged. The crossbow wasn’t pointing at her, but she’d been away in the Darkness a long time and he was careful.

  “I lost a horse,” he said.

  She nodded. Her reactions were natural, smooth, controlled.

  “I found my bolt-hole,” she said.

  “I haven’t heard the thing in two hours,” Kronmir said. “We should ride.”

  “Food. Sleep. Ride at twilight,” she said.

  He nodded. “What’s the Beronese knight’s name?” he asked.

  She looked at him. “Why?”

  “Please tell me,” he said.

  She turned. “You think...” she said, her voice rising.

  Kronmir was very quiet. “Giselle. I waited for you. Longer than anyone with my training should have. Doesn’t that make you cautious? I could have a worm in my spine right now. Tell me the Beronese knight’s name.”

  “Tomaso Lupi. I take your point.” She frowned.

  He let his breath go and carefully uncocked his crossbow. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “Now I really think you are possessed by daemons,” she said. “An apology?”

  “You can ask me,” he said.

  She shook her head. “When I first spoke to you, you shrugged. Not-dead don’t shrug, or anything else. It’s extraneous to the needs of their masters.” She took her horses. “Come on. Let’s eat. And sleep.”

  They had to cross a creek in early-morning daylight, and Kronmir’s sense felt leaden, and his eyes felt as if they’d been rubbed with sand. But he was good at working with fatigue, and so was she.

  Her bolt-hole was a cave that had been improved by a wooden door carefully camouflaged. The cave was deep, and they coaxed all three horses undercover.

  The hay was musty, but the oats seemed to make the horses happy enough, and there was some old green bacon that, when cooked over a tiny fire, proved delicious.

  They lay down on the fern and alder bed and pulled their cloaks over them, and she was asleep and snoring softly before he had his cloak over his legs. Her hair smelled of bacon.

  Jules Kronmir lay down and allowed himself to be happy for a few minutes, then went to sleep.

  They awoke at sunset, and Kronmir felt as if sleep had robbed him of his vitality.

  He saw her open the door, and go out, and he considered going back to sleep, except that fear outweighed even fatigue.

  “Unless the cursed thing is watching from a mountaintop, we’re free,” she said, coming back.

  They tacked up the horses, ate some burnt rice, and drank water.

  Before full darkness, they were moving east.

  Around midnight, they struck a major road, and before the next dawn, they had crossed the river. Kronmir knew immediately when they were free of the Darkness.

  They embraced. They were on horseback, and he had his arms around her, and hers were around him. It went on too long.

  And then she disentangled herself. “Well, well,” she said. “I think we’re going to live.”

  He shook his head, his thoughts a whirl of emotions and questions. “I need to send a report.”

  “You are a strange animal,” she said affectionately. “I need a bath. Thanks for not trying to kiss me.”

  He laughed. But indeed, he had been very close to kissing her.

  “Come on,” she said. “Berona in three hours.”

  “My horse is done,” Kronmir said. “And I’m not sure we’re...free. Let’s take our time and lift a nag from one of the abandoned farms.”

  “Noted,” she said in her duchess voice.

  But there was no horse to be had. He looked for a donkey, a mule, but they were gone. They ambled into daylight, and birdsong.

  But a few leagues farther east they met a dozen Beronese knights led by three that Kronmir remembered; Ser Alessio and Ser Luca and Ser Achille, who were shepherding refugees up the road.

  One of the knights exchanged horses with Kronmir.

  “You survived the Darkness!” he said, and then all of them were kissing the duchess’s hands.

  Alessio smiled at Kronmir. “The count has been beside himself since Ser Tomaso returned; worried about the duchess. And you, too, messire. Let me escort you to Berona.”

  The duchess bowed.

  Kronmir was already separated from her by a great distance. The thought made him sad. Last night I smelled the bacon in her hair and slept with my arms around her, he thought. But his mission was a success, and the world turned.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Ser Alessio,” Kronmir said.

  Part III

  The Empire

  The Red Knight awoke in comfortable linen sheets and for a moment, a year was gone from his life.

  There stood Amicia. She was smiling. He was at Lissen Carak, in the all-too-familiar hospital. He took a deep breath.

  “You are awake,” she said.

  He found that she had changed. He still could not take his eyes from her face, but it was not the cheerful, slightly tanned face he’d known during the siege. It was different, subtly, as if she had grown to great maturity in a short time. But mostly, she shone.

  “You emit light,” he said.

  “You always say the nicest things,” she said. She sat in a chair and put her hands in her lap and smiled at him.

  “You cured me?” he asked.

  She made her frustrated face. “Yes and no,” she said. “We are still linked. All that...all that drama, and the link is still there.”

  He reached out in the aethereal. And then inside his palace, in Harmodius’s mirror. And there it was. A golden thread.

  She met him in his parlor, and she smiled at Prudentia, who smiled back.

  “This is a much brighter place than it was when I first visited you here,” she said.

  He grinned. “It’s my life of ease and all my clean living,” he said.

  “You still have the plague. I am...controlling it.” She smiled. “I owe you several lives. This one’s on me.”

  They laughed together.

  “I love your hand,” she said. “So clever.”

  In the aethereal, its hermetical working glowed with a special light.

  Very much the way she glowed. All the time.

  “You emit light,” he said again.

  “Yes,” she said. She looked at her hands.

  “Master Smythe thinks you are about to perform an apotheosis,” he said lightly.

  He saw a shadow pass across her face.

  “What?” he asked.

  She looked at him. “I am afraid,” she said. “I would not be afraid of death. But what is this?” She reached out a hand so they could both see it. It gave off a golden light. “My faith has no room for this.”

  He could not face her like this. It made
him think...things. He surfaced. “How long have I been down?” he asked. “The army is dying.”

  She put a hand on his. “Two hours. It is dark, and Harmodius and I have channeled what we could to young Morgon. You may sleep. We will go in the morning.” She squeezed his hand and rose. “I do not want to go to the army. I want to be in the Brogat. People are dying there.”

  “People are dying everywhere, and you don’t know how to cure it yet,” he said. “And every time you work potentia, you are closer to...whatever you are closer to.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I knew you’d understand.”

  He put his arms around her and tried not to move his head so that kissing her would be a natural option. She put her head on his shoulder.

  “I never wanted this,” she said.

  He laughed. “Which?”

  “Not that,” she said, sitting up with an unsaintly giggle.

  He touched her face. “You are still the woman who only wants everyone to be happy,” he said.

  She smiled and put her hand on his.

  “Someday, I’ll be able to say I comforted a saint,” he said.

  She flinched. “I am no saint,” she said. “I do what good I can, as much in expiation of what I’ve done as because I’m good. And just today, I feel useless and incapable. I watched two farmers cough their lungs out, and all I can do is slow the horror and ease the pain. Both of them will die.” She paused. Their eyes were very close. “And what if you die?” she asked him.

  He looked at her. “I will die,” he said. “And you will die, golden brown and brave to the last. All of us will die, and so will all of them.” He smiled. “Despite which, I will not die today, because of you. And perhaps because of both of us, many will live longer and better.”

  “Who made you so wise?” she asked.

  “Increasingly, I think it was my mother, for all my bitterness on the subject,” he said. “Maybe eventually I too will be a saint.”

  “Only if arrogance is a secret holy virtue,” she snapped back.

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I think I’d look rather splendid in stained glass.”

  Her hand went to her mouth. She made a splorting noise.

  He shrugged. “I have very little faith, but it amuses me to think of how they were...really. All the saints. Bickering, puking, farting people. Who snored and did tomfool things. And yet became saints.”