by Anthony Ryan
Evadine Courlain spoke on, voice increasing in fervour and volume. “The King and the Council of Luminants have decreed that those who swear fealty to Covenant Company and march under its banner are forgiven all crimes under Crown decree. Once their service is complete, they will no longer be required to seek sanctuary within this holy place. But that is not reward; it is merely recognition of service owed. Your reward has already been paid, my friends, in your service to these cherished shrines. All I ask is that you repay some small measure of the boundless gift that is the Seraphile’s grace and the Martyrs’ example with the sweat of your brow and the blood of your bodies which are mere vessels for redeemed souls. Join with me!”
She extended a gauntleted hand to the crowd, her face riven with something that would have resembled desperation but for the strength of her bearing. “Join this fight and banish the Pretender to the heretic’s grave he deserves! Battle is at hand; his horde approaches the border to Alberis as we speak. But with your help, my cherished brothers and sisters in this divine Covenant, we will turn him back! With fire, with blood!”
For all the compelling fierceness of her rhetoric, her words made scant purchase on my heart at that juncture, nor on Toria’s. “Well,” she sniffed, “that all sounds fucking horrible.”
Predictably, Brewer was a different matter, as were many in the crowd. Evadine Courlain’s final invocation had been followed by a loud murmur of concordance, even a few ardent shouts. A dozen or more men and women had already stepped forwards to fall to their knees at the base of the cart she stood on, voices and arms raised in acclamation. One look at Brewer’s face and I could tell he was itching to join them, his eyes wide and moist, face stricken with much the same open-mouthed fascination as when he listened to Sihlda’s more insightful sermons.
“Getting a little stiff in the britches, are you?” Toria asked him. “Didn’t take you long to forget our new Martyr, did it?”
I would normally have expected some snarling rejoinder from Brewer but he merely spared her an indifferent glance before turning to me. “We are called,” he said. “The Covenant calls us and we must answer.”
“No,” Toria said, folding her arms tight. “Some bitch we don’t know calls us to fight the nobles’ battles for them.” Her face was dark and eyes lowered in the manner that I knew indicated suppressed emotion. However, much we bickered, the Pit and the shared frenzy of our escape had bound the three of us together much as shared blood binds a family. Brewer’s willingness to prostrate himself before this ardent noblewoman was, as far as Toria was concerned, a betrayal.
“Sod off then, if you’re going,” she said, jerking her head at the growing number of volunteers thronging the cart. “More fodder for the threshing.”
Brewer tried to bargain with her, appealing to her criminal instincts by speaking of the loot to be scavenged from a battlefield, receiving only a scathing rejoinder. “Can’t scavenge if you’re dead.”
I took no part in their increasingly heated argument, my wary and constantly roving gaze having been captured by the sight of Ascendants Hilbert and Kolaus making a purposeful progress along the gate road with a dozen custodians at their backs. Kolaus was the elder of the two but enjoyed less status, trailing along after Hilbert with an expression of worried shock. Hilbert’s visage was much more serious and determined, becoming even more so when he alighted on me. The continued murmuring of the crowd and the loud acclaim called out to the Communicant captain muted the Ascendant’s words a good deal, but nevertheless I heard them with gut-plummeting clarity.
“Alwyn Scribe! You will surrender to Covenant justice!” There was a keen urgency to Hilbert’s demeanour, the source of which wasn’t hard to divine. With me gone it would be all the easier for him to claim Sihlda’s testament as his own.
I let out a heavy sigh and turned to regard a bemused Brewer and Toria, their argument abruptly forgotten. “Sorry,” I told Toria, brushing past her to hurry towards the vocal mob of volunteers. “Consider your debt paid. There’s a chest in the shrine storeroom with a lock worth picking, if you’re so minded.”
“Alwyn Scribe!” Hilbert’s voice rose higher as I jostled my way forwards. “Stand where you are! You have a body to account for! Another former associate of Deckin Scarl, by strange coincidence…”
I ignored him and continued to push through the press of sackcloth-clad bodies, his words, filled with righteous judgement, continuing to chase me. “I can abide a few transgressions from a skilled hand, but not murder! Stand still, you villain!”
I skirted the kneeling volunteers surrounding Evadine Courlain’s cart, instead making for the scar-headed, mace-bearing Supplicant who stood to the rear alongside a score of similarly garbed and hardy-looking figures. They all wore the same dark grey cloaks over plain armour and each bore some form of weapon, ranging from swords to crossbows. Having recognised the mace bearer as the same man I had seen speaking to Hilbert the day before, I judged him likely to hold the most authority besides the Lady Evadine. Seeing him at close quarters, I noted how the irregular scar on his close-cropped head resembled a pale, three-pronged fork of lightning engraved into his skin. It crinkled as he raised an unimpressed eyebrow at my approach, nor did he betray a particular interest when I went to one knee before him.
“Supplicant—” I began, only for him to cut me off.
“Supplicant Sergeant Swain to you,” he snapped in a curt rasp.
“Supplicant Sergeant,” I repeated bowing my head. “Please accept my most humble service—”
“Stop that!”
I didn’t look up as a slightly breathless Ascendant Hilbert came to a halt close by. I endeavoured to maintain a servile, hopefully devout aspect as the cleric addressed the sergeant. “This man is bound by Covenant law on charges of murder, and clearly unfit for service in a company ordained under council auspices.”
“Murder, eh?” The sergeant’s voice held a curious note that had me raising my gaze. He stared down at me with a critical eye, one I had seen on Deckin’s face many times when he considered the uses or detriments of a prospective band member.
“Murder most vile,” the Ascendant confirmed, gesturing to the custodians. “Bind him and take him to the shrine—”
“Stop!” Supplicant Sergeant Swain’s voice was not particularly loud but held the kind of authority that was sure to bring any dutiful soul to a halt. The custodians were not true soldiers but knew well the sound of a superior’s voice. I saw a red hue of frustration creep over Ascendant Hilbert’s face as the custodians dithered. He began to speak again but the sergeant didn’t afford him the chance.
“Who did you kill?” he demanded, still staring down at me. “Don’t lie.”
This presented a dilemma. If I told the truth, there was the chance it would be Ayin who found herself swinging from a noose by nightfall. However, given Hilbert’s interest in securing my demise, I reasoned he would swiftly dismiss the messy and unvarnished facts as lies. Fortunately, at this juncture, he was not the man I needed to convince of anything.
“Someone I used to run with,” I told Sergeant Swain. “He betrayed me, years ago. Did a lot of other bad too, but that’s beside the point.”
Swain gave a brief grunt of acknowledgement. “How’d you do it?”
I risked a glance at Hilbert, seeing a grim triumph on his face. This particular detail would not paint me in the best colours but I saw no alternative.
“Cut his cock and balls off,” I said with an empty smile. “It was Deckin Scarl’s favourite punishment for tattlers, back in the forest.”
“You see,” Hilbert said. “This creature will besmirch your banner—”
“It’s the Covenant’s banner, Ascendant,” Swain told him, the hard dismissal of his tone sufficing to stem Hilbert’s invective. The sergeant’s gaze swung back to me, lingering in consideration then shifting to the sight of Toria and Brewer sinking to their knees at my side.
“You two ball-cutters as well?” he enquired.
“Never, Supplicant,” Brewer assured him with a bow.
“Stabbed a few nethers in my time,” Toria said. “Never quite managed to slice one off, though.”
I saw a mingling of disgust and satisfaction pass across Sergeant Swain’s face before he turned to Hilbert, inclining his head in an empty gesture of respect. “I regret to inform you, Ascendant, but this man—” he pointed at me “—had already been accepted into the company before your intervention.”
Ignoring Hilbert’s stuttering, rage-filled protests Sergeant Swain turned to beckon one of his grey-cloaked comrades forward, a hefty, heavy-jawed figure standing almost as tall as Brewer.
“Supplicant Blade Ofihla, escort these three to the camp. They’ll make up the numbers in your troop. And keep a close guard.” He stepped into my path as the soldier began to lead us away, staring hard into my eyes. “You just gave an oath, ball-cutter,” he said softly. “Break it and what you did to your old friend will be a gentle tickle compared to what I’ll do to you. You belong to Covenant Company until she—” he jerked his head at Evadine Courlain, smiling as she lowered her hands to the upraised fingers of the worshipful volunteers “—decides you’ve discharged your obligation. Or—” he gave a smile that was just as empty as the one I had given him “—one of the Pretender’s scum guts you, which I’d wager is by far the more likely outcome. Just try to redeem your worthless existence by taking one with you, eh?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“You stand behind him.” Supplicant Blade Ofihla’s meaty hands shoved me into position, thrusting me far closer to Brewer’s sweat-stinking bulk than I would have liked. “And you,” she said, shifting Toria into place at my rear, “stand behind him.”
I felt Toria bridle at the large woman’s touch and took a hand from the haft of my billhook to calm her with a pat to the arm. Three days of soldierly discipline was starting to chafe on her naturally rebellious spirit and we couldn’t afford any trouble, at least not while Covenant Company was still encamped within sight of Callintor.
In all, over three hundred seekers had stepped forwards to answer the call to arms proclaimed by the Lady Evadine, who was now being referred to as either the Anointed Lady or the Holy Captain. This had had the effect of emptying the sanctuary town of a large part of its workers, compelling the four Ascendants to request that the company linger for at least a week to ensure the harvesting of the latest crop lest they starve come the autumn. Consequently, the company spent half its day working the fields and the other half at drill. This required hours of enduring the frustrated tempers of experienced soldiers attempting to teach the basics of their craft to novice students, most of whom had spent their prior lives in conscientious avoidance of war and its numerous miseries.
“Head lower,” Ofihla said, pushing Toria’s head down until it pressed into my back. “Unless you want an arrow in the eye. The Pretender’s hired himself a whole company of heretic archers and you can be sure they know their business.”
“What about my eyes, Supplicant?” I enquired, nodding at Brewer. “Carthorse though he is, he’s not quite big enough to shield me.”
“Best learn to duck then, hadn’t you?” Ofihla muttered. I had noted how most of her more useful and detailed advice seemed to be directed at Toria while the rest of us were afforded only basic instruction.
I winced as Brewer raised the butt of his seven-foot pike to jab it against my shin. “Carthorse,” he growled.
“Stop that grizzling!” Ofihla snapped. “Eyes to your front!”
She nudged us a few more times before letting out a small grunt of satisfaction and stepping back to address the dozen other volunteers standing close by in untidy assembly. “You lot, form up alongside these three in the same fashion. Pikes in front, billhooks second, daggers third. Faster than that! Don’t imagine the Pretender’s scum will allow you time to dawdle.”
It took a tediously prolonged interval of shoving and shouting to get us all into a semblance of order. From the look on Ofihla’s face I discerned her grave dismay was no mere act intended to spur us to greater efforts. Simply put, we were not soldiers but a mob of criminals, some willing servants of the Covenant cause, many not, although we pretended otherwise. She and the other real soldiers in this company knew there was little prospect of this clutch of amateurs standing their ground in the face of determined assault by veterans. This was all of only passing interest to me, of course, since I had no intention of getting within smelling distance of a battlefield, but I did feel a mite of sympathy for her justified concern.
“This is known as the hedge,” she told us, spreading her arms to encompass the breadth of our uneven ranks. The tallest were placed in the front row with their pikes, a fate I had avoided by contriving to always stand at the rear of any crowd while stooping and bending my knees. However, I couldn’t avoid the second rank and the billhook they pushed into my hands, a sturdy but unedifying weapon consisting of a roughly hammered broad steel blade affixed to a four-foot length of ash. Toria and the others of less impressive stature formed the third rank. They had all been armed with an assortment of knives, cleavers and daggers, also a number of wooden mallets the purpose of which escaped me.
“When I shout ‘form hedge’, this is the formation you make,” Ofihla went on. “Make it well and it’ll keep you alive. No horse will charge a well-made hedge and no man is strong enough to hack a way through it.”
She then had us return to our previous uneven line before shouting her order: “Form hedge!” As might be expected, our first attempt was poor and subsequent efforts throughout an increasingly tiresome day showed only marginal improvement. Ofihla’s broad, strong-jawed face shifted its hue from dark red to a pale pink of despair as she went about her duties with a creditable doggedness, and also a curious absence of the profanity I had come to expect of soldiers. The casual brutality I also expected, however, was fully present.
Ofihla’s fist made a hard, dry thudding sound as it connected with the cheekbone of a particularly laggardly fellow I vaguely recognised as a potter in service to the Shrine to Martyr Melliah. Not content with always being last to shuffle into place in the second rank, this time he also contrived to fumble his billhook, leaving a nasty cut on the arm of the pikeman to his front.
As she stepped over the potter’s insensible form lying face down in the churned mud, Ofihla came the closest I ever saw to voicing an obscenity. “Understand this you f—” She bit down on the word and took a deep breath. I found myself fascinated by the shifting colours of her face as she strove for calm, wondering just how much rage this woman kept caged within herself.
“This is not some mummers’ farce,” she told us finally, speaking in a slow growl. “You will either learn this or you will die, and a corpse is of no use to the Covenant.”
The potter let out a faint groan then, which apparently served to soften the blaze in Ofihla’s breast. Blinking, she glanced down at him and let out a thin sigh. “Enough for today. You,” she told the injured pikeman, “take yourself to the healer’s tent and get that stitched. You, you and you.” Her finger flicked at Brewer, Toria and me before she jabbed the toe of her boot to the fallen potter’s arse. “Take this one along.”
As the three of us came forwards to gather up the limp and groaning artisan, Ofihla added in a quieter voice, “Tell Supplicant Delric I think it best if he finds reason to excuse him from further service in this company.”
Supplicant Delric was the only cleric in Covenant Company not to wear armour or carry a weapon. He stood just as tall as Brewer but with none of the bulk and was a good deal older than most folk in this camp with deep lines on his face and pale grey hair to show for it. A naturally taciturn fellow he spoke in short, clipped sentences and, throughout the many years that I would know him, never used a single word more than he had to.
“Sting,” he warned the pikeman with the cut arm before dabbing a vinegar-and-lime-dampened cloth to his cut, the man clenching his teeth and hissing in pain. He began to je
rk away but stopped at a bark from Supplicant Delric. “Still.”
We set the mostly insensate potter down on one of the free beds in the tent and waited while Delric went about his cleaning and stitching of the pikeman’s wound. His hands moved with a deftness I had rarely seen as they sealed the lips of the cut in precise but rapid loops of thread and needle. He said nothing on completing his task, sending the pikeman off after downing half a cup of brandy to banish his ache.
“Ofihla,” Delric said as he stooped to examine the livid bruise covering the potter’s cheek. Apparently, this particular blow was something of a signature for the Supplicant Blade, one I resolved never to allow inscribed upon my face.
“Yes, Supplicant,” I told him. “She said to tell you she thinks he’s not best suited to soldiering.”
Delric made a soft humming sound then rolled up the potter’s sackcloth sleeves and trews to examine his joints. “Bone ague,” he said after a cursory glance. “Can’t fight. Can’t march. I’ll send him off. Tell her.”
“We will, Supplicant. We, ah—” I shared a glance with Toria and Brewer “—also took a few knocks today. Nothing a drop or two of brandy won’t cure…”
“Out.” Delric pointed to the tent flap, moving towards the table that held his mortar and pestle, not sparing us another glance and certainly not another word.
“Miserly old bastard,” Toria grumbled once we made our way outside. “Been years since I had a drop of the good stuff. All they’ve got in town is piss-water.”
“And yet,” I said, “I’d still welcome a bottle or two of cider once you’re done with your evening’s work.”