Faithful

by Michelle Hauck

  The deepest cover took him out closest to the barn, so he slipped in there first. The large stall inside looked to be for goats and was empty, hopefully, the animals outside for the day already. Only a few chickens strutted importantly among the straw. Every spotless tool lay on its own peg or hook. Rope was neatly spooled. Nothing was out of place. The straw didn’t quite lie on the dirt floor in neat rows, but it came close.

  “Jorga,” he whispered. It was the tidiest barn he’d ever seen—it hardly even smelled. Beatriz couldn’t have installed more order. He peeked behind some barrels in the corner. No boy hiding. Not even a cat, though Ramiro doubted mice would dare enter Jorga’s domain. He rifled through some loose straw in the hayloft and the few hay piles, coming up with nothing.

  Short checks of the chicken house and another small outbuilding revealed no boy and no sign of Northerners. Ramiro relaxed his grip on his sword and put his dagger down long enough to wipe sweat from his hand. Perhaps the boy had gone out with the goats. He’d search the house then signal the others.

  A sweep of the long porch showed nothing but two rocking chairs and a wind chime of flattened scraps of metal above the single step. He crossed the boards and laid a hand on the door. Creepy-crawlies ran up his spine and the warning finally hit. He sprang from the door, reasserting his grip on sword and dagger even as he stepped back.

  The door opened. A spindly kid stood inside with a flour sack on his shoulder. Nearly his age but a head shorter, his shockingly bright blue eyes focused somewhere over Ramiro’s shoulder. “I’m ready. Hurry.”

  “Wha—”

  The kid pushed past him. “I’m Errol. Hurry. It’s coming.”

  Ramiro followed Errol from the porch. “What’s coming?”

  “It, of course. Where’s my mother?” Errol looked up at the woods leading from the valley, turning in a slow circle in the center of the yard before the house. He stopped, facing right where Ramiro had left the others. “There.”

  The creepy-crawlies sent a fresh brush of ice down Ramiro’s spine. “How did you know that?”

  “No time.” The kid darted for the barn as a squad of Northerners marched at a half trot over the lip of the valley in plain sight up the wide road. Ten or more in number, they shouted in alarm at catching sight of them. Ramiro shook off his surprise and raced after Errol as the boy darted behind the barn.

  Saints. The kid was right?

  It wasn’t the time to ask questions. He pelted for the relative safety of the trees. The cover would blunt the Northerner advantage of numbers. From the way the Northerners put on a burst of speed, they knew it, too.

  Someone behind them shouted, and an arrow whipped past Ramiro’s ear.

  Mierda. Of course they had bows.

  He’d reached the first trees, dodging behind one, only to stumble over Errol crouched on the ground with his hands over his ears. The flour sack containing the saints knew what lay where it had been flung.

  “What are you doing? Get up, kid!” He tugged at the boy, but it was like he had grown roots into the ground. Ramiro couldn’t budge him. “Get up! We’ve got to run!”

  “Demon!” Errol rocked, moaning.

  The first Northerner reached them. Ramiro had no choice but to turn and defend.

  Though beardless, the man was taller and heavier, and tried to use his momentum to bowl Ramiro over and finish him. Gomez had had him practice evading just such a maneuver from a larger opponent—usually the sergeant himself. Ramiro stood his ground, parried the blow aimed for his chest, and moved just enough to let the man flow right past him. Spinning, he left his dagger buried to the hilt in the man’s back.

  “Demon!” Errol shouted again from the ground, head cradled.

  “No shit,” Ramiro said as the rest of the Northerners rounded the trees.

  No white robes. He didn’t have time for relief at seeing no priests, however. They’d sent five soldiers after him and left the rest of their number to check the house to be sure this wasn’t a diversion. They wore leather armor instead of chainmail, which was quieter and would stop a glancing blow, but not a determined strike like he’d made on the first man. All had swords out except the two with short recurved bows, like the kind used for hunting.

  The precepts Salvador pounded into him bound him tighter than chains. Always see first to Colina Hermosa’s civilians . . . It didn’t matter if Ramiro no longer wore the uniform or Errol wasn’t actually a citizen, it held him anyway.

  With no choice, he stood over the boy, sword in hand. He had no illusions about them ignoring the unarmed person among them if he stepped away to fight them. They’d use the opportunity to skewer Errol.

  But he’d not live long enough to see it.

  Ramiro set his feet, but it seemed the world suddenly got bigger. The precepts didn’t just apply to the people of Colina Hermosa and his brothers in arms. It applied to anyone who needed his help against an unjust opponent. A lesson learned too late.

  The two bows raised, wicked sharp arrow tips aimed at his chest. He braced, knowing there was no evading their speed. He stood ready, anyway, with sword in front of him, sideways, and feet apart as Salvador had taught. If he were done, let it be with chin up and eyes open.

  No arrow shaft came.

  The Northerners said something, their voices easy and relaxed. Someone laughed. A harsh, shaming laugh that grated on his nerves. They tried to goad and humiliate him, thought him a bisoño, new to his beard. Ramiro refused to flinch, to show the least reaction. His muscles remained locked, rock solid.

  The biggest man nodded and spoke. The foreign words flowed past Ramiro. The bows remained aimed at him, but the big man moved forward, sword spinning in controlled circles in the Northerner’s hand—a beautiful ballet with steel. He gestured, inviting Ramiro to begin.

  Ramiro tensed further, expecting a trick, even as he moved a pace from Errol and balanced on his toes for better mobility. They were barbarians. Did they seek to honor him with a man’s death or have fun at his expense? The man handled his sword in a way that spoke of mastery.

  The first strike came so fast he hardly saw it. He couldn’t parry. Couldn’t dodge. Metal ripped through his sleeve, leaving blood trailing down his bicep. The Northerners laughed at his expense again, but the arrow tips lowered a fraction as they found him less of a threat.

  Sweat chilled him from head to toe. He managed to catch the next strike aiming for his neck, but the man twisted and aimed unexpectedly low next, clipping his thigh. This blood ran hotter, this cut deeper. It would soon slow him. Their sword forms were unknown to him. He couldn’t wait, in hopes Claire would arrive to use her magic.

  He centered himself in front of the unmoved Errol again and lunged forward in attack. The Northerner jerked back, hazel eyes wide. Not quick enough. A tiny sliver of blood oozed from the Northerner’s cheek, just under his left eye. The man touched it in amazement, and the laughter of his fellows cut off, then resumed, aimed as much at him now as at Ramiro.

  As the Northern soldier’s face sobered, he sprang forward, unleashing a relentless torrent of blows. Ramiro managed to get his sword under the first and the second, but the soldier’s size gave him all the advantage he needed. The sheer force beat him down. The third broke the lock of his wrists and broke his guard, punching him to his knees.

  “Demon!” Errol shouted again.

  The fourth strike that would have clove through Ramiro’s head faltered enough at the distraction for Ramiro to reset his sword. Still, the blow skittered off the hilt and smashed his fingers, making them numb. His sword fell.

  Something foul and putrid touched the air. It smelled of rot.

  The brush clattered, and Claire broke through the trees. Her eyes blazed with determination in her pale little face. Men shouted at her appearance. The arrow aimed at Ramiro flew wide by an inch, letting him feel the breeze of its passing. The second bowman swung around at Claire and loosed.

  “No!” Ramiro stumbled to his feet. He glimpsed Jorga by Claire, then h
is large opponent got between him and them, preventing him from seeing what happened. The man hefted his sword, taking his time as he measured Ramiro for the final blow.

  Ramiro staggered backward, uselessly searching the ground for his sword with his left hand. Pain stung his chest.

  His head shot up, expecting to find the Northerner finishing him off, but the man was two steps away. A foot-long cut had appeared across Ramiro’s chest, slicing through clothing and skin. It stung like all the fires of hell.

  “Saints,” Ramiro cried out. Another stinging swipe tore a bleeding gash across his hand. The fear he hadn’t time to feel flooded over him.

  What in all the hells?

  No one touched him. No one was close enough.

  Had Claire’s magic become real? Or was it Jorga’s doing? Nothing of steel or metal had been anywhere near. But no, he heard no singing, and all their magic was illusion, only in the victim’s head. It couldn’t draw blood. He swiped at the red streaks, feeling the wetness, smelling the odor. The pain alone told it was real.

  None of the Northern priests were here to work this magic either.

  Across from him and suddenly uninterested in their fight, the big Northerner cried out and looked down. An equivalent wound carved across his chest. As Ramiro watched, blood bloomed on the Northerner’s hand just as it had on his own.

  What the hell?

  “Demon,” Errol yelled. “It’s here!”

  A sense of evil overshadowed everything but fear. It bore down like a tangible weight, and Ramiro found himself on his knees. The force of it popped his ears, then clogged them. It drove out all hope, all memory of anything beautiful, just as it had when Claire sang the Northern army into panic and retreat. But that had been illusion of evil—not real—and soon gone.

  Or so he thought.

  Another stinging blow made a whip mark across his forearm, cutting deep and leaving a trail of reddening flesh. All around him men were crying out in terror and pain. The Northerners collapsed, suffering the same nightmare.

  “Dal!” someone moaned in a voice of such hopelessness it bled into the soul. A god made real and exacting a terrible revenge, until Ramiro remembered—

  Claire!

  Was she being preyed upon also?

  Ramiro couldn’t stand. Pure darkness reached into his heart and tried to pull out his soul. He crawled like a worm in the direction he’d last seen Claire. “Claire! Santiago, aid me.” Blood sprayed across his face; this time not his own. Tears stained his cheeks, not from any sorrow. He cried with the effort of going beyond his selfish need to collapse and deny the force pushing him into the grave, to simply keep moving.

  This was what Lupaa had encountered in the desert. It had torn the refugees into tiny pieces. For an instant, he revisited the arm hanging from the cactus, the lumps of unidentifiable flesh. It was doing the same to them. But Lupaa had shown him the key to survival. He fumbled for the words Lupaa used.

  Claire. He had to reach her.

  He opened his eyes to judge the distance, and it was like the evil foulness latched onto him. It stole everything. Family. Honor. Memory. He couldn’t picture Beatriz’s face. Couldn’t remember Salvador’s smile. Couldn’t recall Julian’s wisdom. He cried out as something ripped into him. Cried again as he felt its joy at sucking out his life—his essence.

  Ramiro closed his eyes. “San Martin, soldier to soldier, hear me.”

  The evil lessened enough that he could lift his head, panting with the pain. He dragged his body toward where he’d last seen Claire, around the Northern soldiers. “Santiago, help me. San Martin, spare me.” The prayer acted as a shield, sparing him from the violence to his body, though not the punishment of his mind. Over and over, he chanted it as he crawled through things he’d rather not think about and as the screaming rose around him to become something inhuman.

  He managed to find his way, taking quick glimpses of his surroundings. He didn’t dare stop or the dark pressure would never let him move again. At last he touched Claire, recognizing her by the braid, drawing her into his arms. A risked glimpse showed blood everywhere as if splashed from buckets. The sun shone high above, but here the air was full of shadows, darkened like a fierce and silent storm raged. Jorga lay nearby with an arrow shaft rising from her body.

  He sobbed like a child, robbed of strength. He couldn’t tell whether Claire breathed. She hung silent and limp in his arms. Cuts and slices bled from skin as ripped as his own. He shook her, but her eyes didn’t flutter. The evil pressed down as if sensing his resistance.

  “Santiago, help us. San Martin, spare us.”

  The foul sense turned to innumerable hands touching his skin from all directions, filling him with revulsion. The very air seemed to solidify into a malevolent mist, full of hatred and loathing. It sought to make him lose his lifeline and fall. With all his effort, he fumbled into it, managing to pull Jorga closer. He hadn’t the strength to lift her.

  It didn’t seem possible to feel worse, but there was no way he could locate Errol or discover if Bromisto were near. Failure clawed at him, inviting him to give in and stop fighting.

  “Santiago, help us. San Martin, spare us. Let me die. Let it be over.”

  He cleaved to his litany of prayer even as he buried his face in Claire’s neck and clung to her like a lifeline in quicksand.

  Chapter 27

  Julian stood at the open gates of Crueses as the sun rose and watched the column approach that contained all that remained of his people. It spilled across the width of the road and onto the sand beyond, trailing back to vanish in the distance, like a snake’s tail. Juan’s estimate of their arrival had been off, pushed back until morning, but not even the scouting reports that it would be hours yet could deter Julian. He’d waited all night for them here while Juan sulked at the palace. An aching back and tired eyes and feet made an easy trade-off for the sight of the organized column. A tear stood in Julian’s eye to see it outlined against the sun. There could be nothing more beautiful.

  A cool breeze touched his face. The sort of breeze that brought the rains and made it possible for Crueses and Suseph to be the grain basket of the ciudades-estado. A breeze generated by the mountains east of here and that very seldom reached Colina Hermosa.

  The gates he stood beside were not bronze like Colina Hermosa’s but sturdy timbers. The wall of Crueses stood a good ten feet shorter, nor was it as wide. It contained no barracks or storage rooms sheltered within the depths of its stone. No staircase led to the top, only plain ladders. But the blocks of stone were thick and the mortar solid and in good repair. Both younger and smaller than Colina Hermosa, Crueses lacked the same strength, but pride ran through its people—as evidenced by so many of them here to receive their homeless kin.

  The military had spread the word of their arrival and the people of Crueses had responded. All night Julian had received offers of food and shelter for his citizens. The generosity of their spirit renewed his belief in all that was good and kind, counteracting how Alcalde Juan and Alcalde Ramón had soured it.

  Now, he scanned the front of the column of refugees, checking first the only carriage in sight, but it contained naught but white-headed, elderly passengers. Next his eyes roved to the horses, to see them overloaded with children and babies, many of them waving in joy. Finally, he picked out a tall black mantilla among the people afoot, and saw Beatriz’s familiar figure. Only she would wear her full dress of black mourning in this heat.

  He’d planned to make a stately walk out to meet them in accordance with his station. Instead, his feet broke into a run. Tears blurred the sight as the mantilla stopped, then, too, darted ahead of the rest of the column.

  They met in the middle. Beatriz threw herself into his arms.

  “Mi amor.” He clasped her tight, and a piece of the world clicked back into place—something he hadn’t known was missing made right. He kissed her hair, then her lips when she raised her head. She looked barely touched by the long journey, with only some dust i
n the folds of her dress and in her hair, and a faint shine of perspiration. Trust Beatriz to be well looked after by a flood of servants. She’d always had an effortless way of inspiring devotion.

  “Always and forever,” she sighed, then wiped at her eyes and laughed at the same time. “It went well with you?”

  “The military of Crueses goes with me. We leave for Aveston within the hour. And you? You look well. You were walking.”

  Her chin came up. “I have strength.”

  He nodded, hearing all he needed. Of course, she would walk so the weak and infirm could ride. He put an arm around her as they strolled leisurely toward the slowly moving column.

  “Ramiro?” she asked, a note of hope in her voice. “I know your answer, but my heart can’t help hoping this once I am wrong and he is here.”

  “No. As you suspected. He was not. And you have not heard from him?”

  “Not a word. He is with the girl.” Beatriz touched forehead, heart, liver, and spleen in quick succession, her face suddenly pale. “Let him be well.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Julian said hastily. He prayed it were so and that Ramiro stayed out of this mess and in the swamp where he would be safe. Better there than about to go into battle here. He quickly turned to the present. “The alcaldes opposed me as we supposed. I won their military to my side. We managed to make contact inside Aveston. They will be ready to fight with us. Our numbers should be enough.”

  “Then they do have messenger birds,” Beatriz mused, before focusing and tugging his jacket. “You do not need to go. You are no captain and no fighter.”

  A smile crept across his face. So predictable. Her answer was as certain as the sun. “Do you imagine they’ll put me in the front wave, mi amor? No, I stay well back out of the way. I am there to support, and to coordinate between our military and Crueses’. I am the face both sides know.” Before she could speak, he held up his right hand. “This I swear to Santiago: I will do no fighting. Does that satisfy you? I am the glorified figurehead.”

  Her eyes flashed, though her words were mild, letting him know she was not satisfied inside. “The election is in three days. I did what I could on the journey here, but the people need to see you.”