by Victor Milán
He’d addressed the question to his elders. But Melodía answered.
“Join us,” she said. “We’ll give you a fighting chance against the Grey Angel horde. If not—”
She shrugged. “Best thing to do is ride right off and get to packing. Clear out as quickly as you can. The horde follows hard. You’ve got no time.”
“Nonsense!” barked the Vicomte. “Grey Angels and their Crusades are mere legends. Bogeyman stories to frighten naughty children.”
“Now, Eudes,” said the man who sat a beautiful white ambler on the young Count’s left. “Let’s be wary of blasphemy. It might be unwise, if the young lady speaks truly.”
He wore a green gown fringed in purple. The trim signified he was a bishop—Archbishop of Fleur, in fact, Toville by name. The main color signified allegiance to the Creator Adán, the Oldest Son, as did the symbol on his breast, of two broken lines stacked atop an intact third. Notwithstanding that the sackbuts in their splendid barding dwarfed his unarmored mount, and he himself was slight and balding, he held stage, as it were, as well as the others and considerably better than his liege. He was fellow—some said rival—to Vicomte Eudes as counselor to the bewildered young count.
“There’s not a peep about the Angels in the BOOKS OF THE LAW,” rasped Eudes, showing more erudition than Melodía expected. “They’re not canonical. I’ve a hard time believing in superhuman beings and soulless armies.”
“But what about the refugees streaming over our borders from Métairie Brulée, Lord?” asked a knight.
Eudes’s face purpled. Not a good shade for him, Melodía thought. Apparently he wasn’t accustomed to contradiction and had no intention of becoming so.
“What could be clearer? They’re fleeing the freebooters who’ve invaded our land!”
“We’ve done nothing more than exercise our rights of the Imperial roads,” Melodía said. She knew full well that stretched the truth. Imperial law did allow free travel among domains. But it placed some pretty clear constraints on exercising those rights with large armed bands. “You’ll find out for yourselves in a few days whether we’re telling the truth or not. In the meantime, what do you lose by letting us pass?”
“But you’ll ravage the countryside!” Morgain managed to get out.
“We’re prepared to pay for whatever we consume.”
Adán’s purview was Commerce. The word pay put a sparkle in his prelate’s eye.
“If you’ve silver to pay for supplies, surely you can pay for your passage,” Toville said.
“Our payment for our passage,” said Melodía, “is that you get to keep your lives, your lands, and your play-pretties. At least until Raguel shows up to take them from you.”
At the name a shudder ran though the Fleuries. Several made the sign of Equilibrium. The Archbishop not least among them.
It quite pleased Melodía she was able to think of the Grey Angel, and even speak His name aloud, without shaking.
“Try to chisel us or hinder us in any way, and we’ll kill you,” she said. “Then we’ll take what we can carry from your estates, burn your lands black, and poison every well in the county to keep the horde off our backs.”
The three grandes exchanged uneasy looks. They’d ridden too close to Melodía to consult unheard. And they weren’t about to lose face by backing away from a slender young woman armored only in a light jack, brown linen trousers, and high-topped cavalry boots.
“What if we win?” Toville asked slyly.
“You’ve already lost. You’re caught between fires. And make no mistake, my lord Archbishop: we’re desperate. Not for fear of you, but of what follows snapping at our heels. Standing against us, you’ll find, is as wise as standing in the way of a titan herd fleeing a forest fire.”
That hit home, she saw. But young Morgain looked as if he doubted his own name, right now; and the men-at-arms didn’t count. The men who did, Archbishop and uncle, still looked stubborn.
“Let’s say you do win,” she said. “What then? In a matter of days your battle-weakened army will face the horde. And you die.”
She took an emphatic bite. “Horribly.”
Eudes’s beard bristled as he set his jaw. The Archbishop pursed lips as if adding sums. Morgain dangled from uncertainty as from hooks through his cheeks.
“Listen to the lady,” a voice called.
A young man with brown hair held back from his face by a dark-green band leaned on his shortbow in front of a berry-bush, whose branches currently bore neither flower nor fruit, but only thorns. The Fleury blue bloods looked offended that a mere commoner—and a half animal woods-runner at that—would dare to speak. Being a woods-runner, he spoke right on with fine unconcern.
“My name’s Henri,” he said. “I am a coureur de bois, as you can plainly tell, and proud as any king, though I own only what I carry and don’t want more. I was born in the land you sitting-folk call Métairie Brulée. I ask you now: would I have left the trees and soil that make up my very flesh and bones for a mere Faerie-tale?”
To Melodía’s surprise, none of the nobles barked at him for silence. Apparently a few rats of doubt had crept in to gnaw the roots of their certainties. Good, she thought. Perhaps they aren’t too stupid to live.
“Our captain has seen this awful thing, this Angel, with her own good eyes,” Henri said. “I’ve fought the creatures He commands. As have we all.”
Which also strained fact a bit—the army swore in fresh recruits day and night from the refugee-streams, men and women looking for slightly improved chances of sustenance, to say nothing of survival. At least a quarter of Melodía’s detachment had joined since the flight from Séverin farm. But woods-runners, she’d noticed, were generally concerned with higher truths than the merely literal.
“Creatures?” said Toville doubtfully.
“These are surely men and women you’re talking about!” snapped Eudes.
“Have you seen them then, fine lord that you are? I have. I told you. I’ve seen the terrible fervor with which they fight. How they show no fear of death or wounds. How they’re bent only on slaughter and destruction.
“And I’ve heard the captives we’ve taken speak. Most say they felt some power take hold of their minds like a fist, and squeeze out all their will. Those who resist—” He shrugged. “The hordelings kill them in such a way as to encourage the others, if you take my meaning.”
“Why do we sit and listen—” Eudes began.
“Shut up, uncle!” Morgain snapped. His eyes and cheeks burned fever-bright. “I want to hear this.”
That so shocked the Vicomte that he did.
“Some of the ones we capture,” Henri said, “act like dead men walking—aye, and women too. Listless they are, responding to no argument or sentiment or even threat, refusing food and water till they die. Others rage like rabid dogs until exhaustion kills them. Some speak and act like ones awakened from a dream.
“These last—the ones who can talk, and will—tell of lights and colors and strange swirlings in their minds. Of storms of fear and exaltation they can’t describe or account for. Some of these folk accept Colonel Karyl’s articles and join the army, where they serve as well as any other. Others simply wander off and are seen no more.
“But the worst aren’t aught of those, my fine monteurs. No, not by half. Worst by far are the ones who join the horde willingly. Who butcher and torture and burn, either to expiate their sins—or because the Angel gives them license to give into them.
“Them we slay.”
He stood a moment, chin held high as any grande’s. It amused Melodía to think how once she—even long-ago’s spoiled, sheltered princess full of fellowship for the downtrodden—would have reacted with instant fury to that presumption. Now she felt pleased at his defiance—and proud.
“Here’s one truth greater than any other you’ve heard or ever will,” Henri continued. “The Grey Angel horde devours everything, like a swarm of soldier-ants. It’s coming here. It will devour you. R
aguel comes.”
“What should I do?” the boy Count asked the air, eyes overflowing tears.
“Either fight the Angel,” Melodía said, “or flee him. Decide fast. Above all, do not oppose us. For your sakes as well as ours.”
She extended a finger of the hand that held the half-eaten apple and ticked it at them.
“Everything you’ve known is about to change. For the worse. Worse than you can imagine. So don’t try to cling to what you have. Or even what you know.
“Or Raguel will take it all. And you.”
Chapter 35
Morión, Morion—Corythosaurus casuarius. A high-backed hadrosaur, 9 meters long, 3 meters high at shoulder, 3 tonnes. A favored Nuevaropan war-mount, named for the resemblance between its round crest and that of a morion helmet.
—THE BOOK OF TRUE NAMES
Like battling bull sackbuts, two nude giants slammed together. Jaume’s sandals slapped hard yellow soil as he ran up, alerted by a frantic Bartomeu. Ignoring him, Timaeos and Ayaks continued to grapple, grunt, and pummel each other with fists the size of springer-hams.
Without hesitation Jaume flung himself into the scrum.
By midafternoon the great Imperial Army had laagered-down on a dusty plain—ironic in a county called Bois Profond, meaning Deepwood. In fact the province occupied the transition zone between La Meseta and the moister country rising to the Shield foothills. They were approaching Telar’s Wood, the forest that spanned the Tyrant’s Head from north to south.
As they neared Métairie Brulée, the army had cause to move cautiously. They had to contend with an unceasing torrent of humans, beasts, and overloaded wagons fleeing a province now completely overrun by Raguel’s Horde. But ultimately their lack of progress had little to do with caution or refugees either one. Despite the best efforts of Jaume and a handful of competent sub-commanders—like the officers of the two Nodosaur tercios—the Ejército Imperial was rolling pandemonium.
Though Jaume was no small man, Ayaks and Timaeos together could easily make three of him. Using their freely flowing sweat as lubricant he managed to wedge himself sideways between them, chest to chest with the red-bearded Griego, his face turned to his right. A musk of dust and man-sweat filled his head. Both fighters did keep scrupulously clean, as the BOOKS OF THE LAW mandated.
The enormous pair now held one another’s shoulders with their left hands and hammered each other obliviously with their right. Stars shot behind Jaume’s eyes as a misaimed fist clipped him. The watching knights growled.
No, my friends, he thought as loudly as he could, though he’d never shown any sign of the rare and dangerous gift of psi. I’ve got to handle this myself. Or we’re lost—and with us, hope.
Resetting his legs beneath him, Jaume inhaled, tightened his belly on the breath, and, bending his knees deeply, sank his qi. He placed a palm beneath each fighter’s left elbow. He exhaled, retaining a bit of breath deep down to support his spine. Then sucking in hard he drove powerfully upward with his legs.
Though neither huge nor bulky, Jaume was strong. He was also as skilled a wrestler as the Order could boast, except perhaps the deceptively dainty-looking Florian. In a one-on-one match, of course, either the Griego giant or the Ruso might easily throw Jaume by the simple expedient of picking him up and dropping him to the ground. Here, with each man focused entirely on the other, that trick wasn’t available.
He knew better than to push straight outward, opposing strength to strength. So he pushed perpendicular to the grunting, straining pair. In just such a way, the CLASSIC OF THE HOLY EXERCISES claimed, a force of a scant few grams could deflect a force of half a tonne.…
Timaeos’s and Ayaks’s hands lost their grips and slid upward. Their huge, naked bodies crashed together, sandwiching Jaume in a way in which, in other circumstances, he might even enjoy. Now only the fact he had his gut muscles clenched on a bellyful of air kept them from crushing the wind straight out of him. As it was he felt his ribs flex alarmingly, actually heard them creak with the strain.
Lowering both hands he pushed out his elbows. Then, employing the connectedness of body and limbs the Exercises taught, he twisted with all the force of his hips and legs.
Already off-balance, the two giants fell straightaway on their faces.
The circle of knights applauded. Jaume stepped clear in case the two decided to go for each other again right off.
But they’d had enough. Ayaks lay prone with arms and legs splayed, gasping like a fish. Timaeos rolled over, sat up on his broad bottom, and burst into tears.
Jaume swayed. Florian was instantly at his side. He grabbed Jaume’s arm to steady him.
“I’m all right,” Jaume said. “Thank you, my friend.”
Timaeos’s Taliano arming-squire Luigi was beside his master, trying to get him to his feet. A slight, olive-skinned boy, with a mop of black curls and black eyes, he looked like a mouse trying to coax a thunder-titan.
Jaume felt his face settling into the unfamiliar contours of a frown. He let it. Is it really so unfamiliar, these days? It was hard even for a man as philosophically determined to see beauty everywhere as he was to find much to smile at.
“What’s caused this,” he asked softly. “Brother fighting brother?”
The two giants had clambered to their feet. They faced him, so slouched and abject they barely overtopped him. Jaume raised an eyebrow. “Well? Anybody?”
“It was Jacques’s arming-squire David,” Ayaks said heavily. Timaeos snuffled like a nosehorn at a drinking trough. “We both … fancy him.”
“You’re sleeping with a squire?” Jaume demanded. “You both swore a mighty oath on acceptance as knights-brother not to do that very thing. Even the attempt is a violation.”
The boy in question himself ran up. He flung himself at Jaume’s feet and clung to his shins, weeping and gazing beseechingly up at Jaume with enormous blue eyes.
“Please, Lord,” he blubbered, “it’s my fault! I encouraged them both! I was so flattered such mighty men were interested in me.…”
Jaume knelt, helped the brown-haired boy to his feet. Although “helped” was something of a euphemism. David was limp as kelp. Jaume’s blood still sizzled with adrenaline. It was all he could do to keep from yanking him upright.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, voice buzzing with passion and exertion. “You made choices. You’ve got to live with them, good or bad. You’re young: that’s a time for learning, and no better teacher than mistakes. Jacques, my brother?”
The eldest Companion approached quickly from the direction of his own tent. As always these days Jaume was shocked to see just how haggard his friend was. His hair was grey and straggling, his cheeks sunken, his eyes seemed to stare out of brown pits.
“Take him somewhere else,” Jaume said, gently steering David to his master. “And maybe keep a better eye on him, hein?”
Jacques gave him a stricken look. Jaume’s heart fell. He anticipated the words about to spill from the moustached lips. “No, it’s not your fault either. Now go. I’ll talk to you soon.”
He turned back to the repentant giants. “As for you: you are the ones most responsible. Grown men. Men of unparalleled strength. Champions. Knights. Companions. Whatever the boy said or did, you are responsible for what took place.
“You raised your hands against each other. Don’t you see, that’s one of the very reasons we prohibit romance with servants and Ordinaries? That, and to spare all parties from the ugliness of exploitation.”
He swung an arm in an arc encompassing the bulk of the Imperial Army—no longer calling itself a Crusade, since a Grey Angel had preempted the word. Shouts, screams, the clash of arms floated on a wind that stank of wastes human and animal. And blood, mostly human.
“And that. Random duels aren’t enough for our fellow nobles anymore. Now they fight melees to the size of minor battles, while wallowing in their own filth—and wondering why they sicken and die in droves, as if the Creators themselves didn’t prom
ise just that punishment for disobeying their Laws of hygiene. Do we want to let that inside? Do we want to give it entry into the sacred circle of our Order and the Lady?”
He exhaled heavily.
“It’s my fault. The disorder, the murder and atrocity, the plague. I am Marshal and Constable; I command the army. Yet I don’t know how to control it. It’s the greatest defeat of my life. But I do not have to let the general foulness and discord breaks our ranks. And I will not. Especially as we’re called to the most vital service to Empire and people of all our lives!”
“They don’t let you bring the blue bloods to heel,” said Machtigern. “It’s not your fault at all.”
A ripple of consent ran around the circle of watchers. It held an ugly undertone. Everyone knew whom the Alemán meant by “they.”
Jaume held up a hand. The muttering stopped.
“I command,” he repeated. “What happens in the army is my responsibility. Leave that for now. Brother Ayaks, Brother Timaeos, you have broken not just our law, but your faith with one another. What have you to say for yourselves?”
“Kill me,” Ayaks said, his voice more a tyrant-growl than usual with his chin pressed to his clavicle. “Or … exile me. I deserve no better.”
Timaeos emitted a startlingly shrill whinny of despair. Mor Dieter stood near him. With a speed that had fatally surprised many foes from a man his size, Timaeos snatched the dagger from the young Alemán’s belt, held it out at the extent of both his tree-trunk arms, and aimed its point at his heart.
Then he fell forward on his face. His vast body actually bounced a couple of centimeters back into the air amidst a cloud of khaki dust. He made gobbling sounds.
Behind him stood Machtigern. No small man himself, the taciturn and practical Companion had clipped the suicidal giant behind the ear with the flat of his war-hammer.
“Is that Beauty, to deny a man’s choice to take his own life?” Florian asked.
Machtigern shrugged gallows shoulders. “He can always kill himself later, when he gets his wits back. Such as they are.”