by Eric Lewis
“Sally,” Gant asked nervously, “is she…?”
“She’s fine. Helping out inside.”
Ulnoth went into the cave. Crawled in more like, and while his eyes adjusted he smelled sweat and warm death all around him. Weak red rushlights were set along the length of the short tunnel, and past that a wide chamber with water pooling in one corner. In the midst of it Emony labored over a small form that barely breathed. “More light,” she said in a hoarse, angry voice. “I need more damned light!” Someone brought a torch closer, and Ulnoth saw her hands flying furiously over a jagged cut and he decided not to interrupt. Finally she collapsed back onto the stone floor. “That’s it,” she breathed, “either he’ll live or he won’t. Who’s next?”
“No one,” came Sally’s voice as the patient was carried away to await his fate. “That’s it for now.”
“Thank the gods,” said Emony.
“Nah, fuck the gods,” Ulnoth called out, “thank yourselves.”
“Ulnoth!” Sally found him in the gloom and wrapped him in her arms. “You did it!”
“I did nothing but run. I’m good at that. Go see Gant, he’s havin’ kittens out there.” She shuffled past, and Ulnoth fixed on the petite shape before him. “Em…I’m sorry about your brother. He was a good lad. A good man.”
“A lot of good people are under those rocks out there,” Emony replied, too tired even to cry.
“Dannek?”
Emony nodded toward a small hollow worn in the side of the cavern. Ulnoth laid a hand on Dannek’s shoulder, afraid of finding it cold. Then it quivered, and the boy looked up at him in the dark. “Are…are you all right?”
Dannek shook his head. “No. Not…not right now.”
Ulnoth was searching for something to say when he heard his name being called from outside the cave. He scrambled out expecting some new terror, and found Kuther leading a very familiar horse. “Phaerie! Where’d you find her?”
Kuther jerked a thumb downhill. “She was just wandering around, following the stream I think.”
“Corren? Lessi?”
“No. What do we do?”
Ulnoth turned around to face the wall of ice and rock towering over them. “For now? Make ourselves at home, I guess.”
Chapter Thirty
These Dark Days
Taurix’s progress ground to a halt in the face of a new-built fortification filled with a hodgepodge of Pharamund’s generals, vassals, retainers and associated riffraff. A ridge with two manned watchtowers bisected the path through the hills, and on the other side of it red flags fluttered like a thousand flames in the wind. Each side dug in to stare down the other just out of bowshot.
“It’s perfect for us,” Vinian mused from a hidden spot overlooking the camps. “We’ll eat from both tables.” Next to her Corren nodded agreement.
“You’re seriously overestimatin’ my folks’ burglary skills,” said Wrenth. He fidgeted and looked about in every direction, expecting to be ambushed by scouts any minute.
“Don’t worry,” said Corren, “we’ll teach you. It’s easier than you think – armies are big, strong, dumb things. We’ll be away and belly-full before they know aught’s afoot – hello, what’s this?”
Wrenth started, like a kid just caught peeping through the bordello wall. “What?”
“Those flags,” said Corren, squinting and pointing to one cluster among many. “I know those.”
“You do?”
“I should. I marched and sweated under the fist and mace for near a year – that’s Nostrado’s banner. They said the Lady was dead….”
“What, you mean to say you was one o’ them babykillers?”
Corren nodded. “Another life, my friend, though the only killing I did was my own mates. I was saved from it just in time.”
“And that’s your old outfit down there?”
“I think…if only I could get closer, have a look.”
At New Firleaf Alessia had grown healthier by the day, to the surprise of no one who had to endure her mouth when the bouts of pain hit her. And her vocabulary had grown admirably filthy over the winter such that even infection fled from it. This day Corren and Vinian both found themselves facing one of her least accommodating moods.
“When were you going to tell me?” She glared at them with a fevered intensity and curled lip that spelled out exactly what she meant. Taurix’s reprisals.
Corren sighed. “When you were stronger.”
“I’m stronger. How could you keep this—”
“What was I supposed to say? That our raids led to the crucifixion of…hundreds? Thousands? Tell me, physic, exactly what condition do you need to be in to hear that kind of news?”
“We didn’t cause shit,” Alessia snarled, no less fearsome for coming from a bedridden waif without a bed. “I had the pleasure of meeting Lord Taurix once. His kind look for excuses to cause misery and always find ’em. The Polytheon teaches revenge is for the weak-minded, but that one…I’d pay gold to slip a knife between his ribs.”
“No chance of that.” Vinian marched to the heat of the firepit with a half-dozen river carp strung from her waist. “I paid him a visit once myself. He probably sleeps with ten guards and twenty swords now. You’re lucky you survived him.”
“For that,” said Alessia, “you can thank the Polytheon. There were others there deserved as much and didn’t get it.”
“Best not trouble yourself too hard on who deserves what,” Vinian replied as she gutted a carp. “No one gets what they deserve in life, except by accident.”
With that somber pronouncement Corren went away somewhere to sulk and a silence fell over New Firleaf. Its fifteen or twenty souls busied themselves with whatever tasks were at hand. Spending so long clawing at the jagged end of survival had that effect, Alessia supposed. All the nonessentials stripped away left only…what? A sword? Or a scalpel. “Vinian.”
The spymistress looked up from the half-grilled fish she held over the embers.
“Let’s talk plain. I still mean to try and end the war any way possible – you know we don’t care who wins it, but you’re our best chance.”
“Best? In these dark days, I’m your only chance.”
“Fine. I need to know now – are you in or out?”
“I’m loyal to the queen, no secret that. But this scheme – the bank, Artabarzanes – it’s a bigger threat than that wet noodle Pharamund. I’m in. If we can get the two of ’em talking, much as it turns my stomach…that could do it.”
“But how?”
“I need to get inside that fort, see the situation over there. If the letter’s genuine they’ll be in dire straits about now. Make no mistake,” Vinian added hastily, “I’m no ally to you – your crimes against Her Majesty and the feudal order, imperfect as it is, have led to chaos and needless death. But I have bigger fish to fry.” Looking down, Vinian yelped, yanking her charred and inedible carp from the fire. “Godsdammit!”
“Calm down, it’s only a fish.”
“No matter. I can’t afford to be careless, not now. Not ever.”
* * *
With Taurix’s advance his supply lines necessarily stretched, so Alessia and Corren decided to use the opportunity to take Wrenth and a couple likely candidates – they purposely avoided learning their names – on their first raid. The target was a slow convoy caught flat-footed by the push, but also made careless and overconfident by it. “Ten men,” said Nan from her oak tree perch above the track. “Figure no more ’n half properly trained by the look. Two wagons loaded lighter than they woulda been not long ago. Six of us against ten of them.” Her mouth filled with bile. “I suppose I should feel sorry for ’em.”
“Somehow I don’t think you do,” remarked Alessia from her own hidden spot far to the rear. Though she was in no shape to fight, she could still manage to crawl to any wounded
if the need arose.
“All right, remember your drills,” said Corren in the high dead grass. “Quiet count, draw, aim, loose, repeat, repeat again. Don’t get scared – trust we’re covering you. Then rush ’em and attack with intent. Intent beats a skilled but unwilling foe every time.”
“What if we miss?” Wrenth asked.
“Don’t worry, we won’t. We won’t. We’re a team, never forget. That’s our strength. Get ready now.”
The convoy came. A tree trunk lay across the way, blocking it as though a winter storm had blown it over, snow and brush concealing the marks of the axe that’d truly done the deed. Corren gave the hand signal to start the countdown, and they readied their bows.
One of the convoy guards jumped down from the lead wagon and began shouting orders to the others to draw weapons, take cover. At once they scrambled off mounts and huddled up in lines close to the ground.
“That one…” Alessia whispered. “Been through this before. He knows what’s coming.”
But the quiet count was already started. And remembering their drills, like clockwork the New Firleaf crew performed. Draw. The bows creaked as one. Aim. Silence pregnant with held breaths and thumping heartbeats. Loose. Iron and gray goose wings flew.
Not a one hit a target. The soldiers hugged the earth, hid under wagons or between horses. “Again!” Corren hissed, trying not to show his alarm. But they barely had time.
The leader called out, “To the left side, advance! Quick!” As one, as a team, the soldiers rushed the growth that concealed the new-made insurgents.
The new recruits managed a few hasty shots, then panic took over. One man rose and ran, only to be brought down by a cross-bow bolt. Alessia hobbled to him, ready with her instruments. Corren forced himself up and thrust his short sword into the shooter’s belly.
“Huaargh!” The body fell atop him. Corren scrambled out from under it and no sooner did he find his feet than another raised a sharp halberd to cleave him with all the intent one would have for a venomous snake dropped suddenly into a ladies’ parlor. The spearpoint glittered in the sun, then fell.
A shriek echoed out of the trees. The shriek changed to an animal roar and suddenly Nan was stabbing the soldier over and over, howling something incomprehensible. Blood gushed upward and bathed her in sticky warmth. When the meat beneath Nan shuddered no more she leaped toward a fellow grappling with Wrenth. She plunged her knife into the exposed neck of the man and ripped out his trachea. Alessia spared a moment from her ministration to look on in a mixture of awe and terror.
True to Corren’s order, the last archer picked off two more of the guards, then pulled a hatchet after another. Robbed of their leader, the surviving soldiers broke and ran back south screaming bloody murder.
“Hold,” Corren yelled when he saw Nan move to chase the men down. “Godsdammit Nandine, I said hold!”
For a moment it seemed she would ignore him and go off on her own anyway. Then she halted, chest heaving, and turned back. Her entire face, neck and shoulders were red. “Why?”
“Because,” Corren said, “the raid is over. We won. That means you hold.”
“No,” she replied, her voice all poison, “it ain’t. It’s never over. Never.”
* * *
“What the hells was that? Tell me,” Wrenth asked while he dabbed at a wound, “is that what we gots to look forward to? Will I get crazy like that? Will Quen?”
“I can’t say,” Alessia replied. The raid had brought much-needed food, warm clothing and horses. It also brought casualties. She twisted in place to keep her leg immobile and also extract the bolt from the back of the man who’d run – not barbed this one. He’d live, but it wouldn’t be an easy life. “Nan’s always felt things more closely, but she’s tough. But after what happened to Plisten….”
“What?” The small voice came out of nowhere, making both of them jump. “What happened?”
“Nothing, dear,” Alessia said. “Nothing, just boring grown-up talk. I think Vinian’s back – why don’t you go help her with the fish—”
“I know that’s not true,” Quen said with deadly seriousness. “I know people talk about things they don’t want me to know.”
For a moment neither Wrenth nor Alessia could think of a response to that. Finally Alessia said, “Quen, do you trust me?”
“I…I guess so? Yes.”
“Then trust me now. I won’t lie to you – bad things are happening. But just as I wouldn’t give you a pail too heavy for you to carry, neither will I nor your father weigh you down with matters too burdensome even for us old folk. Now please, go help Vinian.”
Quen stared at Alessia for a second, then said, “All right.” She tottered off, unconvinced but trusting nonetheless.
Wrenth exhaled, relieved. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you. I won’t have her follow Nan’s path…or Ulnoth’s or….”
“Who?”
The bolt came out at last, and the man whimpered softly. “Never mind.”
Some time later she tried some light walking with her crutch. It hurt but it felt better than being an invalid. She hobbled up next to Vinian and her latest attempt at cooking, which smelled better than the first one. A rough grill had been made from a stretch of mail strung above the flames.
“Thanks for the ‘helper’,” Vinian said. “You know, most of my job is getting people to start talking.”
“I had to send her somewhere. Did you learn anything?”
Vinian turned a partly grilled fish. “You know, I think I’m getting better at this. I went to the reds’ fort. Embarrassing how easy it was to get in. I played the part of a poor washer boy. Not a hard sell for me you understand. By the way—” she pointed to a smelly pile of red-badged tunics and surcoats, “—make what use of those you can. The soldiers are all lagered up and without enough officers to keep order they’re scared shitless of Taurix. A bunch of companies from the north are making it a crowd thanks to Pertinax but the ranks are worn thin of men with any sense.”
“So nothing useful.”
“Oh no, I’ve saved the best for last. He’s coming. Personally.”
“He? Who?”
Vinian smiled. “Him. Pharamund. King Milksop himself. Seems the golden-haired fop is most unsatisfied with his fortunes in this war and has seen fit to take the field personal-like. As if that would improve things.”
Alessia gaped. “This…this could be—”
“Victory, my lame temple wench. Or at least survival for another season, which is much the same thing these days.”
“But will Pharamund listen to you?”
Vinian looked away. “No. Not to me, but…well, there’s someone else.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t make a habit of talking about it but, despite my appearance I have had…acquaintances. In the past.”
“You mean men,” Alessia inferred.
“I mean a man. My counterpart at Pharamund’s court. One of the finest minds in Porontus, and Pharamund snatched him up just before the country fell to the emperor. Before the war we worked together, and then….”
“Other things.”
“Trozas was attracted to my skill, and I guess my razor wit. I don’t know, I didn’t ask. It was a casual thing. Obviously it ended when Pharamund chose to usurp the royal right but…he might listen to me on this. I think he will.”
Alessia smiled in spite of herself, in spite of the pain shooting through her thigh. “I’ve heard of the enemy of my enemy is my friend, but nothing about my enemy’s lover.”
“He’ll arrive beforehand to make sure all is safe and secure for the idiot’s appearance. I’ll be there to meet him. But Trozas is good – I’ll need help just to get into his presence alive.”
“Then you’re in luck. What better help than one of Pharamund’s own soldi
ers?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Filtration
“This isn’t gonna work. Let’s go back.”
Vinian elbowed Corren in the shin in a manner most unseemly for a page boy. “Too late – they’ve already spotted us. Calm down and press on. We’ll be fine.” Her hair was tied behind a linen coif and her breasts bound tight, but her less-than-deferential attitude undid some of the illusion.
Vinian could see that Corren strained under the weight of the armor – it was bits and pieces cobbled together from a dozen sources and not at all befitting a noble retainer, and he’d clearly lost a lot of weight over the season. He rode a nag donated by someone from the New Firleaf crew that no one with working eyes would mistake for a destrier. A helm of foreign design and a faded surcoat with some random lord’s crest completed the outfit. Every ragged thread threatened to give him away. But it would have to do.
“You better be right,” he growled, more to relieve frustration than anything else.
“Or what? You’ll kill me?”
“No. I’ll turn you in to the first red general I find. Imagine they’ll have a lot of fun with you before they’re through.” Vinian shut up.
The wooden stronghold had no definite shape, having been built from whatever space could be wrested from the hilly forest. It was big, though – timber walls five yards high were topped with pointed stakes, sentry platforms and men with bows, cross-bows or other devices. Corren and Vinian rode toward the stockade from the north side making every effort to be seen, and the last hundred yards found eyes as well as ballistae fixed on them, axles creaking as the tips of the great iron spears tracked their path.
“Remind me whose get-up I’m wearing again.”
Vinian glanced at the surcoat even though she’d already committed it to memory. “Lord Munrath of Hardscrabble. Far enough away that no one’ll ask questions.”
“Hardscrabble. Sounds pleasant. What about the original owner of this fine garment?”