The Armored Saint

by Myke Cole

  The Sojourner finally yanked his cowl back into place and glared at Heloise. “Idiot girl! What do you think you’re doing?”

  She knew what she was doing was foolish, that she would only make matters worse, but it didn’t matter. She was in thrall to the rage now, the anger as sudden and hot as an oven given a blast from the bellows. “I was in your stupid Knitting, and there was no wizardry. You lied because you wanted to kill and steal. You’re not holy men. You’re just a bunch of brigands.”

  “You will shut your mouth.” The Sojourner’s face had gone as scarlet as his cloak.

  Heloise was dimly aware of the danger, of the gathering frost in the Sojourner’s eyes, flecks of black gravel that darted left and right, taking in the Pilgrims, all watching their master challenged by a little girl.

  “You will learn your place!” the Sojourner snarled.

  But Heloise couldn’t stand aside. Even if the burning rage would allow it, she realized now that something had broken inside her when she’d stood beside her father and watched Hammersdown burn. It might have healed in time, but the look in Basina’s eyes had ensured the fragments were so small and so scattered that they could never be pulled together.

  She raised her fists, took a step toward the Sojourner’s horse and the animal shied a second time. “My place is between you and my father.”

  The Sojourner’s head followed his eyes now, jerking side to side, desperately searching the faces of his Pilgrims, the villagers around him. “Someone deal with this child.”

  It was a command from deep in his throat, a mummer’s voice, designed to preach to the far corners of the giant nave at Lyse.

  But no one moved. The Pilgrims looked down at their saddles, at the ground below them, at the villagers, anywhere but at their master.

  “So be it,” the Sojourner said. “Here we see the red among the gray. I will do the deed myself.”

  “No,” Sigir said, ducking under a horse’s neck and dashing out in front of the Sojourner, “she’s just a girl.”

  But the Sojourner’s flail was coming off his shoulder, the butt thumping into Sigir’s stomach, driving the Maior to his knees. Heloise watched the Sojourner dig in his spurs, the huge muscles of his horse’s shoulders bunching as the animal plunged forward. She dimly heard her father shouting, leaping to save her, waving his knife, sharp and deadly and too short to be of any use at all. She could see Barnard and his sons now, coming at a run at the edge of the circle, too far away and not fast enough to do any good.

  The moments stretched out as Heloise realized how tiny she was, how empty her hands were, how far the flail reached. She watched the black iron spikes on the head spin slowly into a blur. As time seemed to slow, her mind sped up, choosing and dismissing a dozen strategies. There was no way she could outrun a charging horse.

  Heloise stood where she was and closed her eyes.

  It would hurt, but only for a moment. And then it would be over, and she would never have to face Basina or her family, would never have to lie awake thinking about Hammersdown and what she could have done to save it.

  She reached into the pocket of her skirt, hoping to stroke Twitch one last time.

  The mouse was gone.

  She heard the flail head jerk on its chain, could feel the air as the black iron spikes spun through, cutting their way to her head.

  “Stop!”

  When Heloise was little, there’d been a storm, so loud and so terrible that she swore it was happening right over her house. The thunder rang so powerfully that the air vibrated, making the wattle shake and her ears hurt.

  The shouting voice was as loud as that thunder, and Heloise winced in spite of herself, opening her eyes. She watched the flail jerk up, the head bouncing on the end of its iron chain, spikes nearly close enough to brush her nose. The Sojourner had turned, staring opened-mouthed at the circle of villagers, parting to admit a single man.

  Clodio.

  The old ranger seemed to glow. His clothing was still ragged, his skin still as brown and cracked as old leather, but it was different now, like the look of well-worn tools, hardened from use, stronger than ever. Clodio seemed taller, his thin limbs longer, his eyes brighter. A tiny mouse sat on his shoulder, perched on its hind legs, little muzzle thrust into his ear. Twitch. Twitch gone from Heloise’s pocket to get help.

  “You will not harm her,” Clodio breathed.

  The Sojourner snarled into the silence. “Now, all see why we are here. A wizard among us, standing in our very midst!”

  He stood in his stirrups, holding out his flail. He was pale, and Heloise could see the ruffling of his cloak where it masked his trembling leg, but his voice was steady enough. “You will kneel and submit to the Emperor’s justice.”

  “No,” Clodio smiled, “but you will submit to the winds beyond the veil. You will ride out, and you will harm no one, and should you come again, I will not be so kind.”

  The Sojourner dug his spurs in savagely, raising his flail. “Cleanse the filth!” he cried, and the Pilgrims took up the call, Samson and Sigir and all the villagers forgotten, their horses wheeling and plunging toward the lean old man, who stood with his arms outstretched, grinning like he was mad.

  Clodio swept his arms up, and Heloise heard a rustling, a sound like the ripping of fabric, so loud that it made her ears ring. All around them, the earth exploded, clods of dirt and rocks flying into the air. Heloise saw tendrils of something flail upward, writhing like gray snakes. After a moment, she realized what she was seeing: roots. The thick taproots of trees breaking free of the ground and waving in the air.

  The Pilgrim’s charge halted as the horses screamed in terror and plunged in all directions, ignoring their masters’ sawing on the reins, dragging the bits until their mouths bled. The Sojourner alone kept his horse straight on, swinging the flail about his head. “Fall before the Thro—” Something long and dark lashed out, slamming down on his horse’s neck hard enough to send the animal crashing into the dirt. The Sojourner kicked free, tucking into a roll that snapped the broach at his breast and ripped the scarlet cloak from his shoulders. He came up on his knees, spurs flashing, the flail crosswise in his hands.

  Heloise heard a creaking groan and ripped her eyes away from him.

  Two of the giant oaks that ringed the common had detached themselves from the line of woods and advanced on the Pilgrims. One raised the long branch it had used to crush the Sojourner’s horse, sending it sweeping into the Pilgrims’ ranks, bowling them from their mounts like straw dolls, sending them flopping into the grass.

  Tone dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and turned it sharply, charging to his master’s defense. The second tree followed, slamming a branch into the earth so hard that Heloise felt it shake, showering them all with leaves and acorns. Tone’s horse shrieked, rearing and plunging, lashing out with its hooves so hard that Tone abandoned all hope of control, concentrating only on keeping his seat.

  The trees spun and lashed, spun and lashed, branches rising and falling like threshing flails, leafy crowns shaking above them. A few of the Pilgrims tried to fight, their iron flail heads digging furrows in the thick bark, but the trees showed no reaction. Their thick roots slithered up from the ground, yanking the Pilgrims down to the earth and crushing them there, until Heloise heard the crunching of bones and the men lay still beneath their gray cloaks.

  The villagers scattered, streaming back as if the common had been set alight. Only Heloise and Samson remained, huddled together in the common’s center, Samson desperately trying to shield them from the trees. He needn’t have bothered. The trees whirled and struck, wreaking havoc among the Pilgrims, but they were careful not to come near the Factors, their branches only ever reaching toward them to snatch away a Pilgrim who tried to make for the Sojourner, who was even now rising to his feet, lifting his flail to strike.

  Clodio, still grinning, dropped his arms and advanced to meet him. The Sojourner swung his flail over his head like an axe, and Heloise cried out,
certain that Clodio would have his head crushed like Alna Shepherd’s. But the ranger snatched his hatchet from his belt and swept it up, parrying the blow, twitching the head so that it tangled in the flail’s chain, holding it fast. He leaned in close, grinning wider. The Sojourner grunted, eyes wide, desperately trying to pull the flail free, but Clodio might as well have been a tree himself for all the good it did him. The flail scarcely budged as Clodio slammed his head forward, the hard front of his skull smashing into the Sojourner’s teeth, snapping the man’s head back. Blood sprayed from the Sojourner’s mouth and he staggered, eyes still wide, but glazed now, confused.

  Clodio shook his head, teeth dropping from where they’d been lodged in his skin. He leaned in close to the Sojourner. “Where’s your Emperor now?”

  He twitched his wrist and the hatchet slid out of the flail’s chain, spinning in his hand. He drew it up and yanked it forward, burying it almost to the haft in the Sojourner’s chest. The Sojourner staggered backward, eyes still unfocused, sinking to his knees as a stain of darker red spread across the scarlet of his tunic.

  Tone shouted, sawing his horse left and right. All around him, the remaining Pilgrims cried out, pointing at their fallen master. Clodio locked eyes with Tone, smiled. “Run along, now.”

  He put a boot on the back of his hatchet head, still buried in the Sojourner’s chest, and shoved the man onto his back. The Sojourner sprawled in the grass and was still.

  The Pilgrims turned and fled. The few who were still mounted slapped their horses into a gallop, but most just ran, clumsy in their heavy armor, flail heads bouncing over their shoulders. Tone cried out to them, cursing them for cowards, calling on them to stand in the Emperor’s name. They ignored him, and at last he cursed and turned his horse, galloping to their head, leading them out of the village.

  The trees followed, tottering on their slithering roots, trailing black earth behind them. They struck down two more Pilgrims before they stopped at the common’s edge, suddenly going still. The common, too, was still, the shredded grass strewn with blood and freshly turned earth, littered with corpses wrapped in gray cloaks, flails snapped like matchwood, horses with broken legs, screaming out what life remained to them.

  The villagers stopped their running and pressed back around the common’s edge. Samson slowly straightened, his arms still wrapped around his daughter. No one spoke, all eyes were locked on Clodio.

  Twitch finished his whispering and leapt from Clodio’s shoulder, scampered in a straight line across the churned earth, light and fast as an arrow. Heloise felt his tiny claws scrabble up her leg, across her hip, and into her pocket.

  Her hand chased him in of its own accord, and she stroked him with her little finger, feeling him soft and warm and trembling.

  Clodio stood, swaying for a moment, eyes unfocused. At last he blinked and looked at Heloise. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh, Clodio. Thank you.”

  “Are you all right?” he asked again.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Are you?”

  “That is the greatest wizardry I’ve ever worked.” He waved, knees trembling. He swayed again, looked as if he might fall.

  Heloise tried to run to him, but Samson’s arm around her waist stopped her. “No!” her father hissed.

  Heloise pulled against his arm, confused. Clodio had saved them. “Let me go!”

  “He is a wizard!” Samson said, and Heloise realized with a start that her father didn’t understand what wizardry really was. None of them did.

  “It’s all right, Papa,” she said, pushing against Samson’s shoulder, trying to break free, but his grip was like iron.

  “It’s all right,” Clodio said, looking at Heloise. “I just need to rest. Twitch is back with you?”

  Heloise stroked the tiny mouse in her pocket. “Yes, he’s here. Oh, Clodio. I’m so sorry. Tell me you’ll be all right.”

  “Fine.” Clodio was already turning, lurching like a drunken man. His legs folded beneath him and he sat down hard. “Just going to rest. Stay with your parents. It’s all right now.”

  Heloise flailed behind her, struggling to break free. She had wanted nothing more than to see her father again, and now with his arm around her, all she wanted was to break free. “Clodio!” she shouted.

  Clodio slumped on his side, one of his legs kicked feebly. “S’alragh . . .” he rasped.

  Heloise felt hot tears running down her cheeks. “We have to help him!”

  “We have to stone him,” Sald Grower shouted. “He’s a wizard!”

  “Shut it, Master Grower!” Heloise shouted, her cheeks suddenly hot. “He saved your life!”

  “What do we know about such a sickness?” Sigir asked. He had walked up beside her family, the village coming behind him, gazing awestruck at the wreckage Clodio’s wizardry had wrought. “How can we mend him?”

  “We have to try,” Heloise said. “Let me go, Papa. He’s my friend.”

  “He’s friend to us all,” Barnard said. “Or . . . he was.”

  “He’s a wizard,” Samson whispered. “You have to beware the blight.”

  “There’s no blight!” Heloise shouted, shaking free of her father at last. She spun on the villagers, her face red and heart pounding. Behind her, her friend was dying, and all they could do was stand there like frightened children. “I was in Clodio’s camp last night. He made me a divan out of grass, and nothing bad happened! The Order tells everyone that wizardry is evil, but it isn’t. He just used it to save your lives!”

  “Evil may be used to a good end,” Sigir said. “The Writ says . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter what the Writ says!” Heloise shouted, her cheeks burning, the anger blazing in her chest once again. Sigir flinched back from her, though he was a man grown and at least twice her size. “He’s our friend and he helped us and now you have to help him! Where is Deuteria? Someone help me get him inside.”

  “Heloise,” Sigir said. “He cannot stay here. He is a wizard. The Order . . .”

  “The Order is beaten! Didn’t you see? They are gone.”

  “They will come back.”

  “Then Clodio will be rested and he will beat them again, and this time we’ll help him. We don’t have to be frightened anymore. Don’t you see? We don’t have to Knit anyone. We have to help Clodio get better so he can help us again if the Order comes back.”

  “Heloise, that is heresy!” Samson shouted. “You will be quiet!”

  “I will not be quiet!” Heloise shouted. “I’ll help him myself if you won’t!” She whirled, narrowly escaping her father’s grasping fingers, raced to Clodio’s side.

  “She has a point, Samson,” Barnard said. “Whether we turn Clodio out or no, the Order will be back for vengeance. Our best chance to stand against them is to make Clodio well.”

  “There is no standing against the Order,” Sigir said. “We must flee.”

  “We just stood against them!” Heloise shouted as she knelt down over Clodio. “We stood and won!”

  Samson shouted as she cradled Clodio’s head in her hands. The ranger’s jaw was slack, a thin strand of drool leaking from one corner. His eyes stared sightlessly past her shoulder. His chest heaved, breaths coming sharp and short.

  Samson charged forward three steps and stopped short, terrified to touch Heloise now that she held the wizard’s head in her hands. “Heloise! Come away from him at once!”

  “Look around you!” Heloise shouted back. “Do you see any blight? Where is the rot and the horror? Where is the fire? He needs help!”

  The villagers looked around them at the silent trees, roots still trailing dark earth. The wind sighed in their boughs, sending leaves skittering. Other than that, there was nothing. Everything went on as before.

  Barnard grunted. “The girl is right. I will fetch Deuteria.”

  Sigir caught his arm. “It is bad enough that we were saved by a wizard. We can’t give aid to one.”

  “That’s not just a wizard,” Barnard shook
his arm loose. “That’s Clodio. He stood in the pikewall with us, remember?”

  The terror in Sigir’s eyes turned to shame, and he looked at his feet, but he made no move to help.

  Heloise slapped Clodio’s cheeks, chafed his wrists. He did not respond. “Help me!” she shouted at her father. “He’s dying and I don’t know what to do!”

  Samson turned to Barnard, and the big Tinker nodded. Samson cursed and the two of them jogged toward Heloise.

  Leuba caught Samson’s wrist. “No! I can’t lose both of you!”

  “What are you doing?” Sigir shouted. “I am Maior, and I say we flee!”

  “To what end?” Barnard asked. “We will be a village of brigands. The Order will pursue us to the ends of the earth now. If we flee, we buy ourselves time. Nothing more.”

  “We will have to find a new way, all of us,” Sigir pleaded. “The Kipti ply their trade from their wagons, never staying in one place for long. Perhaps in small groups, we can find other villages that will take us in. We can scatter.”

  “That is no life,” Samson whispered.

  “It is life,” Sigir replied, “and now it is all we can hope for.”

  “Remember what you told me after you spoke for me in the gathering hall?” Samson asked.

  “Aye,” said Sigir, “but this is different.”

  “It’s no different and you know it. In your worst moment, I’d have never cursed you for a coward, Sigir.” Samson shook his head and knelt at his daughter’s side. Barnard tried to join them but Samson waved him away. “You’ve no more skill here than I. Go fetch the herber.”

  Barnard grunted and jogged off. Sigir tried to stand before him, but the tinker brushed him easily aside. “Where are you going? I am Maior!”

  “If you’d leave a comrade to die,” Barnard didn’t break stride, “then you’re no Maior of mine.”

  Samson put his hands under Clodio’s arms and lifted him. Heloise grabbed his boots, amazed at how heavy such a small man could be. Clodio’s head lolled, his body as slack as if he had no bones, his skin gone gray as a corpse. Only his chest, rising and falling as fast as a rabbit’s, gave any indication he was alive. “Where do we take him?” Heloise asked.