Steadfast

by Michelle Hauck

  “But still human,” Teresa finished for him.

  Ramiro felt any so-called Northern goodness was mingled with their self-interest, but refrained from saying as much. The soldiers in the swamp hadn’t intended to spare his life. They still planned to kill him and a defenseless child. Should he honor them for doing so with humanity? However, Ramiro found his own hopes too painful to crush his companions’ fragile peace. Let them believe the Northerners could be human.

  “Or I’ve spent much too much time being outnumbered and about to die lately.” As intended, the tension in their bodies all slacked a fraction at his weak joke.

  Teresa huffed out a laugh. “Too true, cousin.”

  “Amen,” Telo added.

  Ramiro stepped closer to Sancha and secured his sword, lacing his shield onto his left arm, feeling more complete with the metal in his hand, then gestured at the alley. “Where do we start looking for one Northerner? How do we find her?”

  Father Telo shrugged his burly shoulders. “How does one find anything, my son? We ask people.”

  “Like them?” Teresa said. “Trouble.”

  Ramiro swung around at the tension in Teresa’s voice, sword held before him to see a patrol of Northern soldiers approaching. They shouted and gestured at him, pointing at the ground for him to release his weapon. Everything happened at once. Father Telo dropped to his hands and knees, head lowered to the ground as if in prayer. Arms up and hands open, Teresa backed in the opposite direction. With a shout, she broke into a run and two Northerners bolted after her in chase. The horses, left to their own devices when Telo dropped their reins, broke and stampeded in the opposite direction, running straight at the Northerners and slowing them for an instant.

  Three men came at Ramiro, spread out in a line. His vision blurred, blocking out details of their appearance and focusing on the weapons in their hands, watching their feet and shoulders for clues of their intentions. His training kicked in, and he sidestepped in front of Sancha as the mare squared up to be by his side, careful to stay on his left. She bared her teeth as the Northerners closed, grabbing the nearest man. Her teeth sunk deep between the man’s neck and shoulder. Ramiro threw his shield at the two men on his right. He spun to thrust his sword—once, twice—into the man Sancha held. Such a move left him open, but protecting Sancha was always his first priority.

  The long muscles in her neck bunched as she flicked the wounded soldier away. Her teeth tore out a chunk of his flesh in the process. He hit the wall of the building with an audible thump and rolled into one of the straw stacks.

  Ramiro jumped to the right as Sancha surged forward in a move they’d practiced hundreds of times. Her forefeet beat the ground as she charged the soldier in the center and he went down under her dancing, razor-sharp hooves. Not even watching, Ramiro swung on the last soldier, sword spinning high, then low, as he dropped to cut the man’s legs out from under him. Even as the man fell, surprise on his beardless face, Ramiro bounced to his feet in a leap, using the momentum of his return to earth to drive his sword through the soldier’s chest.

  He hurried to Sancha to finish the other man, but the soldier had been reduced to lumps of pulp and blood under her nearly two tons of weight.

  Father Telo had his arms wrapped around the knees of the remaining Northerner. As Ramiro stepped forward to help, the priest scrambled away and the soldier toppled over. Red slashes revealed themselves across the rear of his calves as he twitched across the ground, unable to rise. Hamstrung. Father Telo held a small hunting knife in his hand.

  “I thought I’d need some protection against Santabe.” The priest’s face twisted in grief or remorse, Ramiro couldn’t tell which. “I didn’t expect to use it.”

  “We never know what to expect in this life, Father.” Ramiro leaned on Sancha’s heaving ribs and pointed to the soldier Telo had defeated. “He’ll live.” He avoided saying the man might live, but he’d never walk again. Blood dribbled down Ramiro’s cheek from a cut by his eye, unfelt until now. Something else stung in his side—a shallow stab wound—likely received when he’d turned to protect Sancha. Nothing too serious for the moment, as his thrown shield had proved enough distraction, but the bleeding would weaken him or possibly lead to an infection if not treated soon.

  First things first.

  The priest appeared to be uninjured. Sancha had a few cuts on her legs and chest, but nothing serious. Ramiro’s gaze traveled up the alley but there was no sign of Teresa or her pursuit. Ramiro ground his teeth. His knees wobbled as he fetched his shield and wiped his sword on his cloak, smearing blood everywhere, though the familiar movement helped and his joints were firm by the time he finished and sheathed his sword. No need to draw more attention to themselves. He tucked sword and shield under the cloak.

  “Let’s go, Father. Teresa went this way.”

  “We can’t,” the priest said with regret in his voice. “Thousands live in this city and we must protect them first. The blood. Quickly.” Father Telo hastened to the nearest pile of straw and began spreading it over the alley floor, tossing handfuls on the dead body Sancha had trampled.

  “Shit! Shit!” Ramiro touched mind, heart, liver and spleen as panic began to build. Eyes he hoped were imaginary touched his back. He sniffed the air for the scent of rot, the feel of evil, and got nothing—yet. No sign of Dal. They were lucky so far, but how could he be so thoughtless?

  Better than anyone, he knew the amount of blood needed to draw Dal was small indeed. His dreams had shown him that. But that was all they knew. Not how often Dal could or would strike. Not how often his attention would be drawn or what might be dividing the god’s notice.

  Ramiro used his already bloody cloak to clean the cut on his forehead and then bent to wipe down Sancha’s legs and feet as Telo continued to cover the evidence of the fight. They had a massive job, to remove all traces of the blood, including bandaging the disabled Northerner or dragging him inside somewhere. Ramiro bundled up his cloak and thrust it into the abandoned chicken house, under some shelving, then turned to grab the first body and stow it inside also.

  By the saints, Teresa would have to wait, and the thought tore him apart. Father Telo was correct that the thousands of people in this city came first, and it was his fault they were in more danger than before. Yet Teresa. He’d met few people smarter or more capable than Teresa, but he still very much feared what had become of her.

  Teresa ran, hardly paying attention to direction, only knowing she needed to keep a gap between her pursuit. If the Northerners closed, their swords would be the last thing she’d see. She’d suspected Aveston was under some kind of curfew, the remaining people shut inside even in daylight.

  The alley abruptly opened up on a square surrounded by houses and with a large well at its center.

  Think. Think.

  She needed to use her brains, because her strength or speed wasn’t going to stop the Northerners. Unfortunately, her head refused to cooperate, ideas driven away by the sharp edges of the blades behind her, and all she came up with were the words of a childish nursery rhyme. The one that warned of what came of meddling with miracles.

  She was going to die like Alvito. Death was the only reward for performing miracles.

  “Help!” Teresa cried repeatedly as she reached the far side of the well, placing it between her and the Northerners. Gibbering panic reduced her to the coherency of a two-year-old. Her heart beat so hard her chest throbbed. Several buckets sat on the well housing and on the ground around the structure. Hardly knowing what she did, she seized one, heaving it at the soldiers’ heads and succeeding in making them duck. Shutters on upper floors cracked cautiously open as she circled in a wary dance, keeping the well between her and death. “Help!”

  She flung another bucket and another, her aim poor, but the soldiers had already deduced they needed to split and come at her from both sides. She froze, trapped by her own mistake of lingering, as they divided. Her choices shrank to bolting again, but she’d not surprise them
with that this time, and her bulk made her an inefficient runner—soon caught.

  “Help, please!” The last bucket earned her another second. Oh saints. She had no more options. The Northerners closed in . . .

  . . . and a stream of sewage emerged from a window to splash over one of the soldiers, followed by the chamber pot, which caught him on the shoulder. “Get out of our city!” a voice shouted. A shoe came from another window, striking the other Northerner squarely in the face.

  Teresa gasped.

  More windows cracked open. A silver-backed hairbrush flew at the soldiers. Pots and pans followed. A child’s wooden block. All around the square, sashes went up and household items poured out. Some fell well short, but others made their mark.

  “Leave!”

  “Get away from our homes!” Other shouts followed with much coarser sentiments. The barrage intensified as a chair knocked a soldier down.

  Teresa retreated to the nearest house, leaning against the door. It sprang open, almost dropping her on her butt. Hands grasp her tight, promising security, comradeship. She sobbed in relief at not being alone anymore.

  Men—fathers and grandfathers, boys without beards—rushed from doors all around the square, carrying brooms or mops. Some held kitchen knives or firewood hatchets. They fell upon the Northern soldiers with cries of righteous rage. The oppressors had become the oppressed.

  Teresa’s tears grew harder and she cried on someone’s shoulder as strangers awkwardly patted her. “What were you doing out there?” a voice demanded.

  She tried to answer but all that emerged was the childish nursery rhyme that kept repeating in her head:

  “Saints above,

  Saints below.

  God’s hand spiritual,

  God’s rule made flesh.

  Covet not the miracle,

  It brings death.”

  Yet, she hadn’t died. She’d lived! That brought a new fear all its own along with a flood of guilt. Ramiro and Father Telo. She’d run and left them behind. Perhaps they’d died in her place.

  “I have to go back. I have to find my friends. My friends! Oh! The blood!”

  The sun beat down out of a clear sky.

  Dal!

  Someone pushed a cup into her hand, guiding it to her lips. The drink sent a shock through her body as the hard liquor burned all the way to her stomach, making her cough and gag, but driving away the fog in her brain.

  “Now, woman, what are you doing out? Are you simple?”

  Teresa focused on the speaker—a nearly bald grandfather, missing all his bottom teeth and wearing a nightshirt in the middle of the day. Suspenders held up his pants, though the grayish bed gown hadn’t been tucked into them. Absently, Teresa noticed he was barefoot. She gulped and got her mouth under control. She knew what had to be done.

  “The blood! We must cover it!” She shook off the hands holding her and ran into the house searching frantically.

  “What are you doing, woman!”

  “The blood! We mustn’t draw it onto us! Quick, if you want to live!” She’d entered a kitchen and a heavy cloth covered the table. She seized it and yanked with all her might, sending dishes flying to smash on the floor. “Cover the blood! You!” She grabbed on to a tall young woman who looked old enough to be married yet still wore her hair down. “Get all your blankets! Quick!” The girl stared at her. “We must cover all the blood! Do you hear me?”

  Teresa rushed to the door, but the old man got there first. “What is wrong with you?”

  “The blood! Did you not hear what happened to the army? You must have seen the burned pile of their bodies outside your gate.”

  “They’re saying it was a demon from the pits of hell. Those rumors are true?”

  “Yes, a demon.” She seized on the simple explanation. “It will kill us all! The blood draws it! Do you want to die? It will destroy this whole city!” Shock slowly grew over his face. She shoved the elderly man out of the way and rushed to the well, draping the first soldier’s body she encountered with the tablecloth. Vaguely, she heard the old man calling for blankets as she turned to grab an upturned bucket. “Water! Clean the streets! Quick!”

  The water level lapped too low in the well to reach without a rope, but several already hung in the water. Teresa heaved a bucket up and turned to send a stream of water over the blood on the cobbles. A large group of men joined her in washing the streets, thinning the blood with water and diluting the red to pink and then to clear. As they did this, women bustled forward with blankets, towels, and sheets until the two bodies lay covered in mounds several feet high. Boys were assigned to stand around the piles with buckets, waiting to jump on any more blood that should appear.

  Only then did the pounding of Teresa’s heart ease, though her breath still came in little pants and her hands shook. The entire city of Aveston might have been purged because of her careless actions, not that they’d given her a choice.

  “As soon as it’s full dark, find a place to bury them and make sure you clean up everything, do you hear?” The old man nodded at her. “Stay inside during the daylight. Walls hold some protection from the demon. Darkness also.” She added for now at least in her own head. “Whatever you do, don’t bleed or let your blood show if you do.”

  “Who are you?” the old man asked

  “Specialist of Cultural Anthropology, University of Colina Hermosa. I’m here getting information for the alcalde of Colina Hermosa.”

  “Ain’t no Colina Hermosa no more,” the man said, eyeing her doubtfully from shorn hair to worn poncho.

  “Your alcalde sent a woman?” another asked.

  “Our new alcalde is a woman.”

  The old man let that pass. “You’re a spy then.”

  “Well . . . yes, I suppose so.”

  “And what do you plan to do, spy? Are you going to stop this demon?”

  She gaped at him and the people so obviously deferring to him. Her little group needed to stop blundering their way through this mission and start planning. “Do? I intend to get back some of our own.”

  A smile crossed his wrinkled face, showing his missing bottom teeth. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? What else do you need?”

  Teresa smiled in return. “Help finding my friends. And the Northerners in white. Where are they staying?” The time of miracles had returned, though whether she lived or died had yet to be determined. All the more reason to act while she could.

  Chapter 14

  Julian’s flesh creeped. He could tell right away that the village they approached had changed, and he slowed his horse accordingly. Beatriz followed his lead and pulled her own mount to a walk. Having been here a few days ago on his way to Crueses and Suseph and overnighting as their guest, he already sensed the difference. No delegation waited to greet him today—and this before they had even known him for the alcalde of a major ciudad-estado. No, they greeted every traveler, and the lack now spoke volumes.

  As the hard-packed street entered the village, the road rang with a hollow emptiness. No children played. No men kept watch for bandits. No women loitered by the wells to share gossip. His stomach tightened.

  “Look.” Beatriz pointed past lines of hanging laundry, where Julian spotted dapple-gray horseflesh—caballos de guerra—standing outside a building. No one rode such animals but the pelotónes of Colina Hermosa. His tightness eased.

  “Captain Gonzalo has evacuated the village is all,” Julian said as much for his own benefit as his wife’s. Yet, his unease didn’t lift.

  “Oh.” Beatriz covered her nose with her shawl. “Do you smell that?”

  The cloying stench of death filled the air. Julian swallowed hard before reason took over and reminded him that nothing stirred. No sign of trouble remained. No sense of evil pressed down. Such a smell would take days to grow. If there was a fight here, it had long ended. He drew reassurance from the warhorses again. Experience had taught that the animals didn’t linger after the death of their masters. He had seen as much with
his son Salvador’s stallion, Valentía.

  Yet, why would soldiers remain in an empty village?

  Here and there lay the traces that the place had been abandoned in haste. A dropped toy. Bread and olives scattered across a porch. Stable doors left wide open.

  They turned their steps to the building where the animals gathered. Julian slid gracefully out of the saddle. “Wait here while I investigate.” As he started to tie his reins to the iron ring in the post set for that purpose, Beatriz snorted.

  She joined him on the ground. “When have you ever stayed in the background and waited, Julian? I am alcalde now. You must let me act the part.” She tied her reins off besides his and dusted off her dress, then squared her shoulders. “We’ll see what’s in there together.”

  His admiration rose. “Now and forever,” he answered, taking her hand. Her cool touch reminded they had nothing to fear when they faced it together.

  The stench worsened as they reached the porch. Thick shade covered them as they climbed the steps to the meeting house that had hosted Julian for his evening meal. The people of this village had brought their best food, eager to impress him and to hear news of the Northerners and the loss of Colina Hermosa. Then, he had nothing to fear but the loss of his status as alcalde, homelessness, and an enemy army. Who could predict he’d ever long for the simplicity of those problems?

  The doors stood open, letting out the smell. A man came to their side before they got all the way into the building. “Lady Alcalde.” Captain Gonzalo took a knee before Beatriz, helmet hanging from one hand. The dark skin of his face was entirely too devoid of emotion. “Our sentries said you approached. We are happy to have you here, though it pains me you still go about without protection. Now I can assign a guard to you.”