The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition
Page 46
“Fitz,” Martin called. “Down here. Soak the closer ground.”
Seconds later the ground at their feet scorched and burned as it was soaked. The ranks of musket-men had to step back as the heat began to grow.
Down in the distance among the trees, pale forms began to appear.
“Mind-slaves!” Martin shouted. “Rear rank, load with normal shot. Prepare to fire.”
A score of the mind-slaves came on at a run, but they were mown down by two volleys from the muskets, and kept down forever by a third.
“Another barrel!” the smith shouted, and Edward and Harold Hillman manhandled the hose into another butt. Out beyond the range of the bellows, Others were dragging themselves out of the earth and trying to escape into the trees, starting to burn as they ran.
“After them!” Martin shouted. “None shall escape!”
Megan gave the horses a touch of the whip and rode the cart over the lawn, the bellows pumping over her head all the time. Martin’s men charged behind it, muskets firing, silver shot bringing fresh flames in the backs of the fleeing Others.
Small flames burned all around them, but no more Others rose from the soil, and the only screams came from the fleeing shadows.
They caught the last Other just as it was trying to dive into the pond. Fitz soaked it, and Martin fired a shot into its forehead, having to stand back as the head exploded, showering them all with dry, gray matter and burning pieces of scalp.
“Well,” Megan said to Edward, “It seems your idea worked.”
Martin stood by the pond, washing the remains of the Other from his leather coat. When he was done he turned and surveyed the carnage.
The whole length of the lawn was a sodden, blackened mass of greasy slime. It still burned in places, and thick gray smoke drifted heavily in the air. The bulk of the men patrolled the area, giving the final death to any Others still showing signs of movement.
Some of the party were filling buckets from the pond and using them to replenish the depleted water butts. Edward and Harold Hillman added silver powder to the mix, and ensured it was well stirred in.
Martin made his way back to the carts, being careful what he stepped in, trying to breathe through his mouth to minimize the stench.
“How many?” he asked the smith.
“Nigh on three hundred as far as I can tell,” the man said, an incredulous look on his face. “Fifteen score Others sent to the true death with only two butts of silver, bulb and water. And we didn’t lose a single man. Would that we had thought of it sooner...Derby might not have been abandoned.”
“Aye. And many a good man might still be here,” Martin said. “But old Menzies would have been proud that his idea has led to such a great weapon.”
“I will make sure they refill all the butts,” the smith said. “Yon new weapon uses the water at a great rate.”
“Aye,” Martin replied. “And have a team of men search the house for silver. I don’t think the Lord of the Manor will return looking for it.”
Old Barr was swapping places with Megan...taking charge of the weapons cart once more. He dismounted again quickly as one of the horses began to choke. It had been chewing some grass near to one of the sodden zones, and Martin guessed it had swallowed some bulb, maybe even some silver.
Martin moved to hold the horse’s head as the old man took out his canteen and poured water into the horse’s right ear. The horse’s head jerked, and it sneezed loudly, covering Martin in spittle, phlegm and partially chewed grass.
The old man grinned.
“That’s two more lessons you have learned today, lad,” he said as he climbed back up on the cart. “If you want to make a horse vomit, pour water in its right ear.”
“And what’s the other lesson?” Martin said ruefully.
It was Megan who replied.
“Don’t stand in front of the beast when you do it,” she said, and they all laughed.
Martin found Fitz drawing a flagon of ale from a barrel on one of the carts. Martin took it from him and drained it in one draught.
“What say you, old man?” Martin said. “I would like to be in Far Sawrey this night. Should we travel under the stars like free men?”
Fitz drew another flagon and clinked his mug against Martin’s.
“Aye. I do believe the Boy-King himself would fear this new weapon.”
I hope so, Martin thought, and I mean to find out one day soon.
The smith came out of the house with ten men behind him. All were carrying sacks, which the smith assured Martin were full of silver.
“He was a bit of a miser, the lord of this house,” the big man said. “Teapots, candlesticks, trays and spoons...almost enough to make me want to take up thievery.”
Martin allowed the men a flagon of ale and some dry biscuits each, then got them mustered and mounted once more before leading them out on the road.
The lawn was still smoking as they pulled out.
The beast did not come. Martin thought. The band was tightly packed around the carts, and although it was still light, the sun was beginning to go down behind the moor ahead of them. The sky was painted in deep red and purple, a riot of color. But Martin didn’t notice. He was lost in thought.
It did not come. And there was no tingling, no doubling in my mind. But why?
Not for the first time, he realized that the beast only came in moments of severe danger...in the heat of a battle going the wrong way, or fighting a strong Other. This time the new weapon had ensured that he had never been in any personal danger. Although he believed he had found the reason, it was a theory that he did not want to test anytime soon.
The men were in high spirits after the battle. They had killed fifteen score Others without losing a man...they had a right to be happy. The man with the squeezebox...Jim Black, a shipwright from Whitby, began to play again. Harold Hillman kept time on his small drum.
Jim started to play “John Barleycorn” and Harold started to sing. His voice rang, clear as a bell, in the evening air.
There was a Thane came from the north
A Thane both great and high
And he hath sworn a solemn oath
That Thornton’s Lord should die
That Thornton’s Lord should die
Now the Thornton Lord was cold and vain
And a man of iron will
But the Thane of the North was stronger yet
And he bent him to his will
He bent him to his will
Then he took a stake both long and sharp
And he staked the Other’s heart
And then he treated him worse that that
He burned it in a vat
He burned it in a vat
Then the silver flood burnt the Other’s hearts
And took them to the cold But the Thane of the north took better yet
He took the Dark Lord’s gold
He took the Dark Lord’s gold
So let us toast the Thane of the North
A man both great and high
For he has sworn a solemn oath
That the Maiden King will die
The Maiden King will die.
The men cheered loudly and Harold blushed.
“I call it The Lay of the Thane,” he said. “It is still rough, but I will work on it.”
“Do that. You can sing it in the hall of Milecastle when we get there...I’m sure my people will want to know their sire is a hero,” Martin said dryly.
The boy blushed even deeper.
A man both great and high? Martin scarcely knew whether he was yet a man at all.
They rode deep into the night. The moon lit their way, and there was no sign of any Others. As they got closer to Far Sawrey, Fitz became more agitated, eager to ride on ahead. He was always at the front of the column, always pushing on, eager to see his old inn once more. Martin fell back so that he was alongside Megan’s cart. She was alone and he could see, further back, that the Hillman lads were asleep in the rear of the c
art.
“Your old man is in a hurry,” he said.
“So it would seem,” Megan replied with a smile. “Sometimes I think he cares more for good ale then he does for me.”
An old soldier riding on the other side of the cart called out, “I care more for bad ale than I do for my old lady.”
That brought another bout of name-calling and catcalls before things began to settle down once more.
“So how did an old seafarer like him come to bring himself to a land-locked inn?” Martin asked.
“It is an old story, and a long one,” she replied.
Martin looked around. There was nothing to see but bleak moor and the rutted path.
“It would seem that we have plenty of time, milady.”
“Time,” she said with a sigh, “Aye. That is something that is always with us. But never think you have enough of it…for it has a habit of draining away when you are not watching.”
“It starts nigh on thirty year ago, back when my man was thin, had a full head of hair, and two good arms, back even before I met him. I was a Miller’s daughter, helping my father scratch a living in a forsaken swamp in a forgotten corner of New England. “We had arrived on the New Hope in 1716, full of joy at the promise of a new life. It didn’t take us long to learn the truth of it…the New World was much the same as the old, just warmer in summer, and colder in winter…not the best place for a Miller.
“Oh, we heard rumors of fine open grasslands to the west, where farmers were crying out for my father’s skills, but we were unable to afford passage in any of the trade caravans, and my father was too proud to ask any man’s aid.
“So we stayed in the hovel he built for us, and watched the swamp eat both the building and the builder till the damp destroyed both of them. He lived barely six months after getting off the boat, and my mother followed him a month later. I was left, all alone with not a single living relative, in a country far from anything I could call home. I was just passed my fourteenth birthday.”
Sparkling tears formed at the corner of Megan’s eyes.
“If the tale is too sore to tell…” Martin began, but Megan brushed him aside.
“I have started it now,” she said, and managed a smile. “Haven’t you learned yet…a man should never interrupt a woman once she gets started.
“For the first two days I did little more than sit in a dark corner and weep, but father had not raised a weakling. I buried mother in a plot of almost dry land, and I walked away with little idea of where I was headed. I carried an axe in one hand…the one Father used for splitting wood, and a sack over my shoulders containing what few clothes I had.
“I had a mind to go to Boston, a dream in my head of being taken in by a rich Lady, but I didn’t even know whether to travel north or south. And after a mile or so I was so coated in mud that I knew I would never be received in polite society.
“The nearest town to us, Dover, was little more than a hamlet. The people were friendly enough to me…they fed me, for one night, and they allowed me a wash, but it was obvious that they had no wish for me to stay. When I moved on I was carrying an extra loaf and some cheese, but that was all they gave me.
“And so I walked for many a long mile. Father’s axe came in handy for chopping firewood but, despite my fears, I wasn’t bothered by bear or wolf. And I knew there were natives in the country around me for I found signs of encampment, but I never saw one of them. Not then, away.
“I was headed for Boston…so I wasn’t surprised when I came to the sea. But it wasn’t a metropolitan city that I found…in fact it was little more than a ramshackle collection of huts and shacks piled around a natural harbor. They called it New Haven, and you would have been hard pushed to find a bigger collection of rogues and villains anywhere in Christendom. And that’s where I met my old man…although at the time I’d have been happier killing him then marrying him.”
Megan stopped. Her tears had stopped, and there was a wistful smile on her face.
“But I am getting ahead of myself. You asked for my story, and I should try to tell it properly. But wait…all this is thirsty work. Will you join me in a flagon?”
She reached behind her and turned back with an earthenware jar in her hand.
“Fitz has his porter, but I have something stronger.”
She passed it to Martin, who took a long swig, then coughed and spluttered as his throat burned and his stomach felt like fire had been lit there.
“In God’s name, what do you have there?”
Megan smiled.
“’Tis my own recipe. Good wine and French brandy, combined with herbs and spices from the Carib. It keeps me warm on cold nights. I learned of it in New Haven. I learned many things there.”
She started talking again, and if Martin thought she might be taking too many swallows from the jar, he was too polite to mention it.
“There is not much use for a fourteen-year-old girl in a whaling port…nothing gentile and ladylike, anyway. I got a bed in the largest of the inns by doubling as barmaid and kitchen maid. In the mornings I cooked…fish, fish and more fish, and at nights I tended bar and fought off the men as hard as I was able. I slept when I could, and I grew up more in the next year than I had in the last ten.
“As I said, New Haven was a whaling station. And at times it resembled nothing more than a charnel house. But there is money in whaling, and many traders were drawn to the port like moths to a flame. The inns in town were drawing ever-larger crowds, and gambling and prostitution were becoming big business. It was only a matter of time before the excise men started to take notice.”
Suddenly there was a look in Megan’s eyes that Martin had not seen before. He was no longer sure he wanted to hear the rest of this story, but Megan looked set to tell her tale to the end. He took a long swallow of her concoction the next time she offered, and was grateful for its heat as her story unfolded further.
“They came in September. It had been a good year for whaling, and the bleached bones were piled high all around, only accentuating the tar-black darkness of the excise men’s garb as they counted this and tallied that and wrote their figures in ink as black as their souls. And after a hard day’s counting, they came to the inn, hell-bent on drinking and wenching.
“I remember it as if it was yesterday. The place was bursting at the seams…one long riot of cursing drunks, one sea of stale beer and vomit. I was kept so busy that I only occasionally had time to notice the black-haired youth that kept staring at me as I delivered pitcher after pitcher of ale to him and the old cove with whom he was sharing a table. “Some old sailor was belting out “Barbara Allen” at the top of his lungs when the place suddenly fell quiet and the excise men came in.
“I knew immediately there was going to be trouble…when you work in a busy inn it is something you learn quickly. They set about ruling the roost like arrogant black cockerels, shoving sailors from their tables, demanding the best of food and drink, and showing no signs of payment. Yet we had to put up with it…for these men had the power to take what they wanted…they had the Protector’s authority behind them.
“At first the only sign of trouble was some abusive shouting and pushing, but things really started to get ugly when they began to paw at the serving girls.
“I want you to know, the inn was not a whorehouse. We girls all made our livings on our feet, not on our backs. Oh, some of the women did an extra shift or two in the inn down the road, where they had rows of beds in the barn out the back, but I had never partaken.
“It didn’t stop the crows thinking I was fair game, though. They latched onto me from the first…maybe because I was young, maybe because I still had all my teeth. For the first two rounds of drinks it was all good-natured, and I had them well in hand. One of them tried to lift my dress, but I slapped him, hard in the face. The raucous laughter of his companions was enough to stop him. From the corner of my eye I saw the black-haired lad rise from his seat, only for the old man to pull him back down.
“A fine pair of pillows for a man to lay his head on,” a coarse voice said behind me, and the hands began to roughly massage me, as if I were a lump of dough being prepared for the oven.
“I had a pewter flagon in my hand, and the weight of the beer that remained in it lent impetus to my swing as I brought it round and smacked it, hard, against the side of his head. He fell away from me, and I was left standing in a suddenly quiet room, with a lump of mangled pewter in my hand and a moaning body at my feet.
“The silence only lasted for a second. Just long enough for me to register the black-haired lad getting out of his seat, then the crows grabbed me as their companion got groggily to his feet. There was blood pouring from a tear in his right ear, and his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on me, but his voice was steady when he spoke.”
“‘Hold her tight, lads,’ he said. ‘It seems the wench needs to know who has the power around here.’
“To his credit, Old John, the owner of the inn, tried to stop them.
“‘Here! I’ll have no trouble. Just be seated, lads. The next beer is on the house.’
“‘Aye,’ the crow replied, ‘And the rest of the night too. But if you would still have your inn on the morrow, it would be best if you left us to it.’
“A look passed between John and myself, and I knew what it meant. If I wanted to still have a job, I had best let the crows have their way. Old John had already turned his back on me, and I do believe I was about to submit, when a cold voice spoke. I knew before I turned that it was the black-haired youth.”