The Dread Wyrm

by Miles Cameron

  “Sometimes,” he answered.

  She became bolder, and caught his stirrup. “Are you going to the Queen?” she asked. “I’m one of her women. A laundress.”

  He could see no evil in her. “Nell!” he shouted.

  Nell reached down and without a shade of his hesitation, grabbed Amicia’s hand and dragged her across her saddle.

  Gabriel might have laughed, except he was too tired and too angry. He reached for the blonde woman as he turned his horse, got his good hand under her armpit a little more roughly than he had intended, and put his spurs into poor Ataelus, who deserved nothing of the kind.

  The blonde woman squawked, and then he had her. She got a leg over the saddle even as Ataelus exploded into one of his bursts of speed.

  A knot of men-at-arms and mounted soldiers burst out of the smoke, the crowd, with the bees at their heels.

  Gabriel looked back. They were riding through the camp Ser Gerald Random had built for the visiting knights. Half the pavilions were empty, and some held squatters. But there were streets of wedge tents and streets of round pavilions, and double-ended pavilions for the richer lords, with cross streets so retinues could move about. It was like a clean, neat, festive military camp, and the tents stretched away for a third of a mile. The ropes—guy ropes and pegged wind-ropes—often came well out into the streets making it, in fact, a riding nightmare, even without twenty armed pursuers.

  He locked his left arm across the young woman in front of him. “If I have to fight,” he shouted, “just fall off. Don’t stay.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Ataelus was a fine horse—the best, really—but he was not fast. His pursuers hadn’t made multiple passes in the lists, or been awake since dark morning.

  They began to gain rapidly.

  Nell, despite her smaller horse, had no such troubles—she was small, Amicia was thin, and they were drawing away from Ataelus and from the pursuit.

  I’m going to be captured, Gabriel thought angrily.

  He had a thought—glanced into his palace and was saddened to see that the golden thread was gone from his ankle.

  Not so much gone, as a mere slip, a spider web filament.

  So much for invulnerability.

  He leaned into the ear of the woman in front of him. “I need you off,” he said.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  He reined Ataelus in, turning to the right. Ataelus understood immediately, and when a little of his heavy speed was shed, he pivoted on his hind legs, almost fully stopped—and the woman slid to the ground with real agility, catching her skirts and rolling.

  Nice legs…

  Gabriel had his sword in his right hand and his reins in the left. There were at least a dozen men coming at him. But they were spread out over a furlong, and none of the leaders were knights.

  They were on the main street of the northern knights’ camp—where the Red Knight and his company would have been in other circumstances. Gabriel could see the red pavilion that was his rally point—he was south and west of it, too far away to do any good.

  He had no curses left. He went through the first six men without taking a bad blow—his own actions had been a blur of covers and short, vicious counter-cuts—and the seventh man was all alone and Gabriel reached out with his injured left hand, caught his bridle, and pulled as he back cut with his sword from a high left guard, parrying the man’s boar spear.

  The pain was briefly intense as he pulled the horse’s head over—until the horse rolled, crushing its rider.

  “That was stupid,” Gabriel said aloud, aware he’d just maimed his own hand.

  In that moment, a red thunderbolt struck the rear of the men coming at him. Gavin—in his coat armour—had it all—the red surcoat, the panache, and the magnificent horse barding of red silk—and he looked like an ancient god of war as he struck the pursuers with a war hammer, killing and dismounting men with every swing.

  Gabriel sat and watched his brother rout a small army. It was a brilliant feat of arms, and all Gabriel could manage was some desperate panting.

  Gabriel backed Ataelus, looking to see if any of the men he’d dismounted were coming at him from behind. He turned his horse, and the blonde woman was astride one of the armoured pages, with a dagger at his throat.

  He didn’t take her threat seriously, and he struck her in the side with his armoured fist.

  She killed him. One push from her slim hands and he was dead.

  She turned her head away and rolled off him.

  “The rendezvous is this way,” Gavin said with some brotherly sarcasm. “Unless you’ve found more maidens to rescue? Christ, you have.”

  Gavin saluted with a shockingly bloody war hammer. “Your servant, fair maid.”

  The blonde woman put a hand to her mouth.

  Gabriel put his own hand on hers. “Let’s see if we can manage the mounting better on a second try,” he said.

  “You fair pulled my arm out of the socket last time,” the woman said reproachfully.

  “I promise to do better,” Gabriel said.

  “Who’s he?” the woman asked, pointing at the gore-besmattered knight. The pursuers had baulked—facing Toby and Michael and Ser Bertran.

  They made the mistake of charging while he got the blonde woman back onto his horse. Ser Danved appeared from a maze of tent ropes like a trick rider and unhorsed a knight—knocking man and horse to the ground from side-on. Ser Danved was a big man, and he and his horse cut the whole column of pursuers—the men who’d passed his one-man ambush were at even odds with Ser Michael and Ser Bertran and young Toby, and were quickly unhorsed. Gavin charged into the midst of the fight, and panicked horses burst into the tent lines and men went down in all directions as their horses crashed through standing tents, and the melee became general.

  “I’m Blanche,” the woman said. “In the pictures, the girl’s always behind the knight.”

  Gabriel had to laugh.

  It took another sharp fight to get clear of the camp; the whole of the casa, pages and archers included, proved a match for the disorganized Galles, and cut their way free.

  “We could just cut our way in and get de Vrailly,” Gavin said. He was in high spirits.

  “What, and just leave the Queen where we found her?” Gabriel cocked an eyebrow.

  The Queen was on a good palfrey. She was as pale as milk.

  They’d taken every horse of every man they’d unhorsed, so that they were like a moving livestock show—Ser Danved’s joke. Nell and the other pages were driving a herd of war horses, all still saddled.

  “In a day or two, someone is going to raise an army,” Gabriel said. “Gelfred says this Du Corse has three hundred lances, and de Vrailly had the same last year.”

  “More,” said Gavin.

  Ser Michael swore. “And Albans who should know better—I saw men who were my father’s knights. I put Kit Crowbeard on his arse not fifteen minutes ago—the traitor.”

  “Kit Crowbeard?” Gabriel asked.

  “One of my father’s retinue knights. His professionals.” Michael frowned. “Did Ranald’s people save my da?”

  “Ask me when we link up with Ranald,” Gabriel said. “I told him to keep his men away from the lists unless… well, he must have.” Gabriel looked south. “I hope he did. Otherwise, they’re all taken.”

  Bad Tom nodded. “Aye, I didn’t linger to watch, but they were disarming the Royal Guard as soon as they could.”

  Gabriel signalled a halt.

  “Everyone change horses,” he ordered. He dismounted and held out his good hand to help Blanche, who ignored him and slid to the ground with neat athleticism.

  “I must go to my lady,” she said. She ran off along the road.

  Gabriel stretched his back and watched the distant camp. “Where’s Gelfred?” he asked Tom.

  Tom Lachlan just shook his head. “No one came to the rendezvous,” he said. “Mind ye, we had to go find you!”

  Gabriel winced. “No
t my finest hour.”

  “You found yersel’ a nice piece. You should keep her,” Tom said, in his friendly way.

  “Or,” Chris Foliak put in, “if’n you don’t want her—”

  “Gentlemen,” the captain snapped, “if you are quite through—”

  “He’s just like himself,” Ser Danved said loudly to Ser Bertran.

  “I need a rouncy or two for the ladies. Unless Nell plans to take the good sister all the way to Lorica.” He managed a smile at Amicia. “What happened?” he asked.

  “The King?” she replied. “Oh, Gabriel…”

  Blanche ran back to them. She curtsied in the dust of the road with a fine straight back.

  “Look here, Captain,” she said. “Sir.”

  Gabriel managed a bow which made his back burn as if a fire had been lit under it.

  “My lady—the Queen—she can’t go much further,” Blanche said. “She’s too proud to say, but she could birth at any moment.” Blanche looked around. “You’re all a fine lot—any of you fathers? Blood and fighting brings on the birth, so they say.”

  Gabriel was still watching the camp.

  There was movement. They had the fire out, and he saw the glint of armour.

  “Eight hours of light left,” he said. Nell brought him Abraham, his oldest and calmest riding horse. He swung into the saddle. “Nell, you’re a peach,” he said.

  Nell blushed.

  He rode along the column to the Queen, sitting with her back against a small tree. She looked serene—and deathly pale.

  Gabriel dismounted on willpower alone and managed a creaky bow. “Your grace—I can’t stop here any longer or we will all be taken or killed.”

  Her marvellous brown-gold eyes met his. “I know,” she said. “Blanche loves me, but she’s trying to mother me.” The Queen extended a hand and Gabriel got her to her feet. “I can keep him in for another few hours—days, if I must.”

  “You are a woman of power,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I healed you last year, when the arrow struck you,” he said. “That’s how I know. I wonder if you could share some of your ops with us—with me and with Sister Amicia.”

  The Queen nodded. “Of course—whatever I can do.”

  Gabriel reached out and touched her and entered into her palace—a veritable fortress. He’d never seen a palace so well guarded. In the middle of it rose walls of solid, shining gold—pure gold, so well fitted that he could scarcely see where each gold stone fitted to the last.

  She led him—slim and lovely—through a doubly barred gate and into the citadel.

  “Is it true—that my love is dead?” she asked.

  Gabriel nodded. “Killed by an arrow,” he said.

  She took a deep breath—even in the aethereal, and pursed her lips. “Later, I will see if I will mourn,” she said.

  In the midst of her citadel—a storybook citadel with trellises of fruit and birds on trees—there was a well, and she dipped clear water—pure ops —from the well and gave it to him, and he drank.

  “This is never a good idea in the romances,” he said.

  “I would like to laugh,” she said. “I would like to run amidst flowers and feel love again.”

  Gabriel finished the dipper. Then he reached out a hand and found Amicia and beckoned to her, and she came, stepping through the walls as if they were not there—because she had been invited—and the Queen gave her the dipper to drink.

  And Amicia took the potentia and worked it, and healed the wounds in his side and armpit. She rubbed her thumb across the back of his left hand and frowned.

  “Perhaps tomorrow,” she said.

  And then Sister Amicia walked along the column, healing small hurts of men—and horses.

  Tom shook his head. “She’s—” He looked around and hung his head.

  Gabriel sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “Now, let’s get out of here, before something goes wrong.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Company

  At Second Bridge they went east again—much the same route they’d used in the morning. It was possible that someone very quick might have sent a force by the west road on the other side of First Bridge and cut them off and, healing or no, Gabriel didn’t fancy another combat.

  But as they climbed the low hills of the southern Albin, so that they could see all the way along the main ridges back to Harndon, Gabriel was sure he saw a column on the main road and another moving on the far bank—there were dust clouds there.

  “We should have killed ’em all while we had the chance,” Ser Michael said. “I wish I knew where Da was.”

  “I am not even sure you’re wrong,” Gabriel said.

  But Gavin came to his rescue. “No,” he said. “We did what we set out to do. It’s all the plan we could make. If we’d had two hundred men-at-arms…”

  “Anyway,” Tom said. “That stream’s gone past, eh? It was na’ a bad fight, as such things go. We didn’t lose a man.”

  “Or a woman,” said Blanche, who was riding with the Queen. She was doing well.

  At the Freeford crossroads, where the Harndon Road and the Eastern Road crossed the Meylan Stream, Gabriel gave them an hour. Toby led the squires off in search of food and came back with a laden mule and links of sausages flung casually over his shoulder. They all ate, even the Queen. In fact, she was ravenous, and Blanche accosted the captain again.

  “She needs to eat. She’s not one of your mercenaries.” Blanche put her hands on her hips. “You can’t make her ride all night.”

  Most of the casa looked away in various directions. But Ser Michael bowed and said, “The captain is doing his best—”

  “I’m helping him make the right choice,” Blanche said.

  Tom was looking back under his hand. “I think there’s men on the road,” he said.

  It was early evening, and darkness was not so far.

  “Get over the ford,” Gabriel ordered. “Now.”

  Ser Michael reached down, plucked Blanche off the ground, and rode across the ford with her. The casa was mounted in moments, and Ser Francis and Chris Foliak got the Queen across—still eating.

  Gabriel and his brother sat and chewed sausage.

  “Local men,” Gavin said after a time. There were fifty or sixty men coming—a handful mounted.

  The two of them were still in all of their tournament finery. Gavin tossed the last knot of his sausage into the river behind him and missed the swirl and snap as a pike took it. He and Gabriel rode forward, side by side, their right hands in the air.

  One of the mounted men pressed forward to meet them. He took off his right gauntlet and held it up, too. “Ser Stephan Griswald,” he said. He was over fifty, and running to fat, and his coat of plates didn’t fit well—but the sword at his side spoke of some use.

  “Ser Gabriel Muriens,” Gabriel said.

  “That’s they!” shouted a spearman.

  In fact, there were three or four dozen spearmen—with gambesons and good helmets, most of them with a chain aventail.

  Ser Stephan nodded heavily. “Those your men?” he asked, pointing at the knights across the stream.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said. In fact, his men were readying lances. “Are you the sheriff?”

  “I am, my lord. And it is my duty to arrest you, in the name of the King.” The sheriff reached out with his truncheon, like a mace.

  Gabriel backed his horse. “The King is dead,” he said. “And has been since this morning.”

  That brought the sheriff up short. “My writ has just come from the King,” he said

  “It is no legal writ, but a forgery by the archbishop,” Gabriel said. “Did he order out the militia?” he asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Every county. By the saints, my lord—the King is dead? What mischief is this?”

  “He took an arrow in the chest.” Gabriel nodded. “But you see the woman sitting under yon tree? That’s the Queen. The Galles want her, my lord she
riff. And I will not give her up. So you and your brave lads will have to fight us.”

  Tom Lachlan was recrossing the ford with all the men-at-arms at his back. He and Ser Michael looked like the left and right hands of God in the setting sun.

  “I think you’d need a legion of angels to arrest this lot,” said another old man in armour. “Leave it go, Stephan.”

  The newcomer rode forward. Under the trees that lined the road it was almost night. He emerged—a straight-backed old man in fitted steel.

  “Lord Corcy,” Gavin said.

  “Ah—Hard Hands himself. And that’s young Michael, Towbray’s scapegrace older son.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Would you gentlemen send my duty to the Queen? And will you give your word not to attack us? You have more men and are far better armed—but we are”—he didn’t chuckle, but he sounded amused—“the arm of the law.”

  Corcy was an old man, one of the old King’s military barons.

  Gabriel took his hand. “I give you my word. Just let us go, and that’s the end.” Then he dared. “Unless you’d hide us?”

  Lord Corcy thought for a moment, and his face became hard. “No,” he said.

  Bad Tom came up on his bridle hand side. “If we kill them, they can’t tell aught where we went,” he said.

  Lord Corcy’s hand went to his sword hilt.

  “Damn it, Tom!” Gabriel spat. “Lord Corcy, we will offer you no violence unless you attack us.”

  Corcy backed his horse. “My sons are at court,” he said.

  Ser Gavin nodded. “We understand.”

  Corcy’s eyes were lost in the darkness under the visor of his light bascinet, but he shook his head. “I’ll keep the news from court as long as I can. Who killed the King?” he asked suddenly.

  “Honestly? I have no idea,” Gabriel said. “If I had to guess, I’d say the Jacks killed him. Or the Galles.” He shook his head. He was tired—too damned tired. He couldn’t see the shape of the plots. He’d lost the threads.

  Lord Corcy spoke out of the darkness of his helmet. “It will be war. Civil war. With wolves on every border.”

  Gabriel took his own hand off his sword hilt. “Not if I can help it,” he said.