by D. J. Butler
Bang!
A second shot shattered the air, and this time Sarah saw gray plumes from the Creole’s pistol, firing pan, and muzzle, but he was toppling over backward, his aim was high and his bullet disappeared into the afternoon sky.
Sarah looked to her side and saw Sir William standing with one of his pistols calmly extended at du Plessis, smoke drifting from its mouth. “I regret to say it, suh,” he called to the fallen man, “but I warned you.”
“Thank you, Sir William,” Sarah said. “I seem to fall deeper into your debt.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty.” He raised his hat with his injured arm. “It is I who continue to fall deeper into your service. I find it satisfying, though not without its moments of piquancy.”
He took bone measure and powder horn in hand and began reloading the fired weapon.
The chevalier knelt beside his aide, listened to his breathing, and felt his pulse at his throat. “He lives, but not for very long.”
Sarah looked at the Creole. Sir William’s bullet had hit him in the chest, and had probably entered his lung. Why had the man attacked her, apparently against his lord’s wishes?
“Shall we make the exchange now?” the Heron King asked.
Sarah looked at the Lazars, frozen dead-white and enraged in the middle of a forward stride, along with their companion, and possibly new leader, Ezekiel Angleton. Father Angleton, hater of the Firstborn and Christian priest, who had proven himself a practitioner of black magic.
Behind them, as if they cast a great collective shadow, she fancied she saw the unassuming English country gentleman whose face she had seen in a dozen portraits—Oliver Cromwell, the Necromancer.
“Yes,” she said.
The trees and the plaza vanished. With them went the Lazars, Angleton, the chevalier, and his dying man.
* * *
Sarah stood in a columned hall. The pillars were towering conifers, with reddish-barked boles bigger around than the supports of the St. Louis Cathedral, but running off into visual indistinctness in stately rows. Under her feet was a carpet of emerald green moss; shafts of white daylight pierced the shade from high in the forest canopy above.
With her stood her companions and Simon Sword. The Heron King had left his borrowed human body on the Serpent Mound, and stood before her now in his full majesty. He towered above her like a giant, not a mere aura now, but a hulking, fear-instilling, trollish thing of flesh and bone, with the great crested head of a heron. His aura was the same sparkling green, but his physical person was covered in fine white feathers, iridescent when struck directly by the light. His black eyes were all pupil, and infinitely deep.
“Sweet wounds of Heaven.” Sir William retreated half a step.
You see I am handsome in my own person, the Heron King said. Sarah heard his voice like Hooke’s, in her head. It is not too late to reconsider our bargain. This—he turned to gather all the trees and shadow about them with a sweep of his arm—would be one of your palaces.
Sarah looked closer, and saw that the columned forest hall sparkled in many colors with berries, vines, and wildflowers. The air was crisp and sweet, and she was tempted to lay down her cares and be done, surrender to the importunings of Simon Sword and become his queen. She might not be free, but could she not be safe and happy without freedom?
But then she saw the stricken look on Calvin’s face.
“Send your embassies later,” she said. “For now, let’s keep the bargain we’ve made.”
The Heron King laughed again, and waved his arm. Suddenly the forest hall before Sarah was filled with a crowd of beastfolk warriors. They snorted and shrieked in surprise, but held their ranks. Perhaps they were accustomed to such strange goings-on.
And were they really there in person? Or was this some sort of shared vision?
Sarah scrutinized the beastkind. They were all man-shaped, bipeds standing mostly on their hind legs, but she spotted among them the faces of wolves, eagles, bears, stags, bison, and even fish. She saw ape arms, immense folded wings, furred legs terminating in all manner of hooves, and even one creature that looked like a forest sloth, though shrunken to the height of a man. They wore a motley assortment of armor, chain and plate, and carried an equally picaresque array of swords, spears, hammers, and axes. A few had bows or crossbows slung over their backs. They had the collective musk of a farm, and savage stares.
Could Sarah really lead such a regiment?
She turned to look at Sir William and saw that he stared back at the beastkind, meeting their fierce stares with his own unflinching green gaze. If she couldn’t do it, Sir William could.
The Heron King addressed them in a shout that boomed loud in Sarah’s mind. Warriors of the Mississippi! You served my father brave and true, as you have served me! I am warmed by your affection, strengthened by your loyalty, and proud to be in your company! Never has this hall seen a worthier band!
A general snorting and stamping of hooves seemed to indicate a pleased reaction.
Simon Sword turned and bowed his head to Sarah. Now I must ask of you a great sacrifice! Some of you will die today and be gathered again into the earth, but that is not the sacrifice I mean. More pleased and rowdy tumult. This woman is Ophidian, the daughter of Kyres Elytharias, called the Lion of Missouri, and rightful Queen of Cahokia. She has agreed to return to me the Heronblade, so that I may rage against the kingdoms of men as is my true and only destiny.
Sarah swallowed back an uneasy feeling.
In return, I have sworn I will give her your service. Sarah expected at this point that the excited noises would turn to outrage, or at least die down, but they continued. Understand clearly what I ask, my warriors. Those of you who agree to my request will enter her service by an oath upon the famous Sevenfold Crown, which she bears. This is an oath you will not be able to break, and you will serve her to the end of your days. If necessary, you will serve her even against me.
The noise quieted slightly, but the beastkind still champed and snarled in approval. As the Heron King paused, the beastfolk turned their heads and Sarah felt dozens of animal eyes upon her. She stood as straight and tall as she could and gazed back, trying to broadcast confidence.
I can only ask, Simon Sword continued, in this matter I cannot command obedience. I will turn my back, and any who wish to continue in my service may leave the hall, with no shame or punishment. All who accede to my request by staying will then take their oaths and will return to the rivers with their new queen.
He turned his back.
Sarah looked at the beastkind, challenging them with her eyes. They looked back and did not look away.
None of the beast-shaped fighters left the hall.
Simon Sword pivoted to face the warriors again and smiled. Thank you, my sons and daughters. In these, the last moments of your service to me, know that it is you who have brought me back to my throne.
Then the Heron King stepped aside, leaving Sarah and her companions with a crowd of expectant beastkind soldiers.
“Sir William,” she said, “I have no experience with military oaths. Can you devise one appropriate to the occasion and administer it for me?”
Sir William nodded thoughtfully and stepped forward, facing the beastmen but not obscuring their view of Sarah. Sarah replaced the golden sword in its hanger and took the Orb of Etyles in both hands. She looked into it and saw through it, within easy reach, the mighty green mana-currents of the Mississippi River.
She reached out with her spirit and seized hold of that power, drawing it to her. She felt her own reservoir and Thalanes’s brooch fill instantly, and the overflow was enormous, so great that it felt like it might burn her out and leave her a husk if she handled it for very long at all; for the moment, she held it ready and extended her soul into the Sevenfold Crown, examining it and trying to determine how it worked.
“Raise your right hand…or foreleg,” Sir William barked to the rows of beastmen, “and repeat after me.”
The crown shivered, and Sarah sensed wi
thin it conduits going out much as the orb presented to her conduits coming in. As Sir William began the oath, pausing every few words to let the dozens of animal-rough voices follow, she drew power from the Mississippi through the Orb of Etyles into her own body, feeling it like an electric tingle, and pushed it back out again through the Sevenfold Crown.
In the vision of her witchy eye, she saw green light flow into her body, and blue light stream back out of her, through the seven points of the crown, spreading in a wide arc to strike each of the swearing beastmen in the eyes.
“I,” Sir William began, “say your name—” here there was a confusion of barking, snuffling and hooting noises, “hereby swear upon the Sevenfold Crown of Cahokia my faithful allegiance to Her Majesty, Sarah Elytharias Penn, rightful Queen of Cahokia and heir to the Penn lands. I swear to uphold her rights against all challenge, to defend her person and her honor against all threats, and to do her will in all things, not sparing my own blood or life. So help me God and all the powers that be!”
Sarah let go of the stream of power with relief.
The oath echoed with a growling buzz. Sir William turned to face Sarah again, and executed a deep bow; the beastkind followed his example. The Cavalier was bloody and tired, but his expression was one of pure exultation.
“Your Majesty,” he said.
“My warriors!” Sarah called, stepping forward to face the crowd. “I thank you for your oaths and for your loyalty. This is your commander, Captain Sir William Johnston Lee. You will follow his orders in the execution of your promise.”
Sir William bowed to Sarah again, as did all the beastfolk.
Simon Sword presented himself with a short bow, holding in his hands (feathered on their backs; a wing-like membrane hung from his arms and shoulders) a small plowshare. It had the same glittering golden appearance as the sword, glowing similarly green in her Second Sight, and the Heron King showed her both sides, so that she could see the heron head carved into one side of the plowshare’s blade and the image of a sword carved into the other. The Heronplow, he told her. Your foundations will be solid, your boundaries known, your fields fruitful, and your people at peace with each other.
He held it out to her.
Sarah slid the Heronsword from the satchel strings where it rested. It felt heavy in her hands. “Do you not wish for peace, solid foundations, and fruitful fields?”
He shook his great crested head. Those are the works of my father, and I despise them. I am the bringer of change, the avenger of time, the harbinger of justice and war.
What horrors was Sarah unchaining? But she had made her choice already.
Sarah exchanged the sword for the plow.
The Heronplow was light, as the sword had been, and she placed it in her satchel, nestling it down below the bird’s nest and other items. In Simon Sword’s hands, the Heronsword seemed to grow, until it was as long as Sarah was tall.
“Do you still seek a bride?” Sarah asked.
The bird face smiled. It is my imperative to find a queen and mate. I believe you will be a mighty ruler of your country, Sarah Elytharias Penn, and would be an excellent queen of my own.
“Send your embassies.” Sarah forced a smile. She feared this strange demigod, and had no desire to be his mate, but as long as he had intention to court her, he might withhold his judgment, change, and war from her and her kingdom.
The Heron King nodded. I will return you now to Wisdom’s Bluff. As it happens, it is not far from here. I will not come with you, so this is farewell. He bent, like an adult kneeling down to a child, and kissed Sarah’s hand. You understand, were his last words to her, that you receive no more help from me.
Sarah nodded calmly, controlling her eyes and her hands though her heart galloped like a runaway horse. She had a flash of terror thinking that the beastmen might not, after all, be loyal to her, and that she might have traded away the Heronsword for nothing, but then she thought of the Sevenfold Crown and the oath Sir William had administered, and the panic passed.
Simon Sword turned to Sir William, who wore a steely expression on his grizzled, weary face. You are my friend, Bill, whether you like it or not. He held out a crescent-shaped ivory horn, yellowed with age, trimmed with battered golden bands and fixed with a thin leather strap. These warriors I am giving into your care are my Household Guard, and no ordinary soldiers. I rejoice at handing them over because I know they have not had a more able commander. You will, however, want this.
Sir William nodded stiffly, took the offered horn and slung it over his shoulder. “It has been an adventure, suh.”
It has, the Heron King agreed, and, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the hall of forest pillars was gone.
* * *
The redwoods were gone and Cal found himself again in the stone plaza on Wisdom’s Bluff, at Sarah’s side and looking down the slope, at two different armies charging up it.
He didn’t glance long enough to tell one from the other, but just saw a wave of mounted men in blue uniforms riding up the hill toward him. Beyond them, at the foot of the hill, Simon Sword’s beastmen soldiers—Sarah’s beastmen—held their position.
But he had no time to worry about the soldiers. Straight ahead, across the plaza, three of the Lazars came sprinting at Sarah. Tom Long-Knife rushed first, pulling a dagger from its sheath. The one-eyed Lazar and Berkeley were one step behind Tom Fairfax and on his flanks, also drawing out blades.
“Bill!” Cal shouted, “git ready, they’re a-comin’ up the slope!”
Then he raised his rifle against his shoulder and shot Black Tom Fairfax.
Tom took the ball in his shoulder, spun away, and dropped.
A hunting call sounded just outside Calvin’s vision—Bill, blowing the Heron King’s horn. Cal gripped his musket like a club and stepped forward, lowering his shoulders to charge; Lord hates a man as won’t get his hands dirty. Sarah had a blank look on her face, and Cal couldn’t risk either of the Lazars getting past him. He braced himself to hit Berkeley with his rifle and throw his body at One-Eye—
Bang!
Berkeley crashed over backward, a shower of black ichor spraying out of his chest, his hat and perruque flying. The last of the Elector’s silver bullets, and good shot, Cathy Filmer.
The abrupt disappearance of his target left him off balance and slightly stumbling, but Cal managed to come in under One-Eye’s swinging knife blade, musket first, held sideways like a bar, and he crashed to the ground on top of the Lazar. He trapped the dead man’s knife hand under his musket and one knee, freeing his right hand to grope at his belt for Chigozie Ukwu’s silver dagger.
Jumpin’ Jerusalem, but as bad as the empty socket was, the white eye was worse.
Bill blew the horn with one eye on the beastmen at the foot of the hill and the other on the chevalier and Jacob Hop, who were crouched over the body of the dead Creole. Sarah’s new soldiers responded to the horn’s call, and broke into a tight charge up the slope, howling an animal war cry.
But the mounted men didn’t slow in their ascent, and Bill faced a dilemma—deal with the soldiers charging up the hill, or deal with the Lazars? He cast a quick glance about the plaza and decided that the Chevalier of New Orleans, however much he was a selfish, ruthless man, would be forced to fight against the Lazars, too.
Sheathing his saber, Bill ran down the hill.
* * *
Ezekiel Angleton hung back at the edge of the plaza, mumbling. Sarah had more immediate problems; the Lazars were going to cut her friends to pieces.
“Help, damn you!” she yelled to the chevalier, who hadn’t joined the fray.
Tom Fairfax rolled silently to his feet, knife in his hand—
Sarah felt in her satchel and her fist closed over the robin’s nest she had stored there—
“Labyrinthum facio!” she shouted, and hurled the nest at the Tom Fairfax. Black Tom reared back, the small tangle of twigs and grass hitting him in the chest and falling to his feet. She willed energy into her sp
ell, drawing a tiny stream of the ley-flow of the Mississippi through the Orb of Etyles and pouring it into the nest to effect her desire.
Her entire body burned.
Tom stopped his charge. He dropped his chin, stared down at the nest and shuffled his feet aimlessly. The knife fell from his hands to the stone of the plaza.
And then Sarah felt something push back against her, through the tangle of twigs and the maze she had turned it into. Angleton.
Sarah furrowed her brow and poured in more power.
* * *
Cal shoved the little silver knife into One-Eye’s throat, afraid that any moment the undead Berkeley would stab him in the back.
A gout of cold, black fluid that spurted out. The Lazar kicked and twitched and finally lay still, his eyes glazing over with a dark film and his eye worms finally stilling their dance.
The captain’s shadow crossed him.
Bang!
Cathy Filmer’s silver bullets were gone, but the force of her lead ball was enough to knock the Cavalier off balance. Cal yanked the blade free and rolled to his feet. Then he heard a hard crunch.
“Stop where you are or I’ll shoot her!” he heard, and he froze.
The Chevalier of New Orleans stood behind Sarah, two pistols pointed at the back of her head. Sarah had one hand in Thalanes’s satchel, which Cal didn’t think the chevalier had noticed, but she looked lost in concentration. Cathy hung to one side, the Lafitte pistols on the ground before her, tangled hair and blood at the corner of her mouth testimony to a failed resistance.
Berkeley recovered his balance and came charging back, sword raised high.
“I can’t!” Cal jumped forward to meet the undead dragoon.
“Fine,” the chevalier conceded. “I’m happy to kill the victor.”
“You sure know how to motivate a feller.” Cal sidestepped a thrust, falling back. He wasn’t used to fighting swordsmen, and his preferred weapon, when he had to fight hand to hand, was the tomahawk. He tightened his grip on the knife and attacked with a series of controlled stabs.
Berkeley was unimpressed, calmly parrying with progressively shorter, tighter strokes. Then Cal was chest to chest with the dead man.