Crusade

by Daniel M Ford

  “I believe I can, m’lady,” Chaddin began airily. “It was a dwarfish alchemist, in point of fact, not a man. He resides in Thornhurst, which is many days ride to the east, over or around the Thasryach. Once there, ask for the Wit. Though, be warned, he is a deadly hand with a crossbow, as your Sir Leoben learned.”

  “A crossbow is weapon of peasants and cowards!”

  “I promise you, Torvul is neither of those things,” Chaddin said. “And should you make it so far as Thornhurst in some mad attempt to kill him, he will see you coming from miles away. And should he find it expedient, he will put a crossbow bolt through your neck and proceed with whatever more useful work he was about before you showed up. Or, perhaps, he might seek a bit more of a challenge and simply talk you to death. Either way, I can’t recommend you go seeking revenge.”

  “Kelten,” Landen said, “you may still serve a purpose here, and earn back the spur you will now remove. Or you may flee the keep and seek what you will of the world—but if you harbor any hope of serving as a Delondeur knight again, you will do as I say and do it now.”

  Rage and shock warred on his features before settling on confusion. Petulantly, Kelten knelt and stripped the spur off his boot. He hefted it for a moment, eyeing Landen as though he might throw it. Chaddin rose quickly, hand on his sword, but Kelten dropped it sullenly to the ground, where it fell with a jaunty, out-of-place ring.

  “Let this be a lesson and a warning both,” Landen called out. “I will not tolerate errors that lead to needless death. Act in haste to do the thing you think right in the moment, and I will reward you. Delay to see what benefit you may snatch for yourself, and I will punish you.”

  Kelten melted back into the crowd and Landen decided to watch him go. She took a deep breath. Best to get it all out right away, she thought. “Now bring forward the clergy of Braech. There is an issue of Anathemata that must be rescinded.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The Order of the Arm

  Allystaire looked over the squires arrayed before him. They wore new clothes, replacements for the rags they’d arrived in, excepting Harrys and Norbert, who wore their accustomed armor.

  So few, he thought, counting them again as if he might come to a figure higher than nine. Harrys, Norbert, Tibult, Mattar, Johonn, Miklas, Gastin, Armel, Teague. He thought on their names as he moved down the line, the last half-dozen still mostly unfamiliar to him.

  Unfamiliar, and yet not. All of them had been soldiers, once, and that gave them plenty in common. When he’d healed all of them on the morning that Tibult had brought them, he had come to know their pain, and that was something more. Tibult’s hip had been crushed by a scared horse. Mattar’s back had been so racked with pain he couldn’t lay down or sit, and had slept for years standing against a wall. Johonn’s powerful left arm had drawn tight up against itself after a blade had slashed muscle and tendon, shriveling it into a withered and useless claw. Miklas couldn’t draw a breath without searing pain in his mangled chest. Gastin’s shoulders had been badly broken upon a strapado and never allowed to heal. Armel had an arrowhead grinding in his knee. Teague had been so badly burned by a fire she’d worn rags across her face for years. He’d taken her pain away, but the scars his gift could not touch, it seemed.

  And there was still Waltin, whose eyes Allystaire feared were too far gone for too long for his gift to provide any comfort. The last man still lingered in darkness and pain, spending what time he was awake being led to and from the Temple.

  Allystaire had thought he’d known pain in his life.

  When he’d healed the squires before him, and failed to heal blind Waltin, he’d come to know how wrong he was.

  And when he had healed them he had found inside all of them something in common. A stubborn will to live, a refusal to completely let go of hope that life, someday, somehow, would once more be sweet to them. The Goddess had made that hope a truth, through Her Gift to him.

  And each healing, he had felt, had come with an obligation. They had all known it, Allystaire had felt in the moment of healing, and taken joy in it. Joy not only in the sudden cessation of pain, but in the knowledge that something redeeming was being offered to them. They were not merely given back life, but purposeful life. Redeeming life.

  My brothers of battle, Allystaire thought, as he watched them in the slightly chill of the spring morning. Or mayhap my cousins, or my children. Whatever they are, they will be Her Knights.

  “The Order of the Arm,” he finally said, his words swinging through the air like a hammer descending true upon a nail. “An idea. A vain and foolish hope, I am told, or something out of a story or a bard’s song, too pretty to be real.”

  He smiled. “None of us are pretty like the stories say of Arentenius.”

  There was a ripple of laughter in the too-thin ranks.

  “Neither is the task before us. Together, all of us who serve the Mother—and some who do not, it must be said—are trying to push a boulder up a hill. Up a mountain, even. And strung along it are those who would push it back down upon our heads. At the top of that mountain is peace. I doubt any of us here, save Harrys, remember what it was like to live in a country not at war.”

  “Boring,” Harrys spat. “And t’were still cold.”

  Another thin chuckle.

  Allystaire looked at the faces once more; many were scarred like his, with the mark of fist or blade, or helm hard-struck. The faces were thin or broad, sharp-cheeked or rounded, but all had a certain hardness to them. Even Norbert had it, aided by the scar fading to white on his cheek. The youth’s eyes seemed to miss very little now.

  “If we ever get this boulder up the summit, it will have been work enough for ten times our number. Though it may seem difficult, impossible, we will put our shoulders to it every moment of every day that remains to us. When others tire, we will keep on. When those around us fall, we will put them on our backs and keep pushing. We will never falter at this task, and when we have done it, we will find another. In peace or in battle, in comforting home or punishing wilderness, we will bear any burden for the Mother and Her people. We will refuse nothing that is asked of us by Her, or by them, no matter the cost. Our arms, our horses, and such personal effects as may fit upon our belts are the only things we reserve for ourselves. If a man has need of my cloak, it will be his. Of my links, his. If any of you wish to leave now, if you think you have not got the mettle for this, step forward, admit it to me and to those around you, put off your arms, and renounce forever the chance that is offered. Those who stay will be my comrades in service to the Goddess.”

  Allystaire took a discreet breath, watched the two lines. No one moved.

  “Good,” Allystaire said. “Now we must take such time as we have before the peace congress to become knights in truth. That means training. I will have Torvul let you into the armory to outfit yourselves as you see fit. How many of you aside from Tibult and Harrys were horsemen?”

  Only Armel raised his hand.

  “The rest of you were foot, then?” They nodded, though Teague—wearing now a fitted leather mask over half of her face, and gloves on both hands—spoke up.

  “I was an archer, m’lord. A fine one,” she said, her voice hesitant.

  “Good. Norbert will see to it that you have a bow, and the two of you will work together every day, every moment. And Teague—call me Allystaire.” He looked over the lines again. “Do the rest of you know the rudiments of riding, at least?”

  “Never been on a horse in m’life.” That was Johonn, who looked too big for any horse to bear.

  “We’ll find you an ox,” Harrys said, turning to face the man, who loomed head and shoulders above him. The big man gave him a wide smile, showing rough teeth. The years of disuse had shrunk his left arm, the muscles growing thin and weak. Some of the strength had come back to it since Allystaire had healed him, but it was still smaller and feebler than his rig
ht. Even now, the huge man—not just taller than Allystaire, but broader and more thick-limbed—clutched a stone in his left hand and squeezed it every so often.

  “We will worry about mounts tomorrow. Now, it will be to the armory to see you outfitted as proper squires. Then we will set about making knights of you.”

  * * *

  When Torvul swung open the doors of the shed housing the armory Allystaire sighed wistfully.

  The dwarf glared up at him, snorted. “What?”

  “Just wishing, not for the first time, for the armory at Wind’s Jaw. Or even at Coldbourne Hall,” Allystaire answered as the would-be squires filed past him into the shed, some of them diffidently touching a pile of dusty armor or searching carefully among a barrel of spears.

  “Not a spot of rust there,” Allystaire mourned. “It was the nightly duty of the squires to scour the hauberks. Sword stock waiting to be worked to the wielder’s arm, heavy footman’s axes in leather hoods leaning against the wall, flails and maces.”

  “Stones Above, lad,” Torvul muttered, shaking his head. “Speakin’ more fondly of inferior steel than any woman I’ve heard ya name.”

  “Yes, I am sure dwarfish steel never rusts and works itself,” Allystaire said, only to be cut short with another glare.

  “Works itself? That’d be an abomination I’d not stand for,” the dwarf grumped. “The ore doesn’t know what shape it’s suited for, not when it’s taken fresh from the rock. But,” he added, “you’re wearin’ the closest thing t’dwarfish steel this world’s like t’know again.” He lifted a finger to point to the hammer at Allystaire’s hip. “I’ve heard no complaints.” The finger lifted threateningly towards Allystaire’s chin. “And I’d best not!”

  “I have not had to swing it in anger,” Allystaire reminded him. He watched the men holding chain shirts against their chests; it became apparent that none were going to fit Johonn.

  Torvul sighed and raised his eyes and his hands dramatically. “It’s goin’ to be up t’me to see that whatever crude iron this ragged lot selects is brought up t’snuff, isn’t it?”

  “Well,” Allystaire said, “I had hoped you might do what you could.”

  “Lucky for you lot that what I can do, even with slop, is more than what most of your clumsy so-called smiths can do in their dreams.”

  Many of the men had belted on swords. Johonn had found himself a heavy, double-bitted axe, held it awkwardly in his mismatched arms, searching for a grip. Teague was inspecting the bowstaves, muttering her need for a string, a thick-bladed shortsword on her belt. Miklas, a lanky ginger, and Gaston, olive-skinned and curly-haired, had found spears to their liking. Mattar, second in bulk only to Johonn, had not gone looking for weapons suited to his stature. Instead, he had brace of short-hafted broadaxes shoved them through his belt, and was now searching among the knives and daggers. Armel had found a thin-bladed longsword and was looking among the meager stock of horseman’s weapons, finally taking a flail and testing the weight of the pair of spiked balls carefully in the palm of one hand, the chains coiling along his arm.

  “We will see what plate we can find once we have made some training progress,” Allystaire called out. “For now, if you find yourselves kitted, let us begin.”

  “I’ll need string to make any proper test o’these bows,” Teague said, finally drawing free a length of wood and holding it critically in both hands, tilting it and peering carefully from different angles.

  “Norbert? Have you to spare?”

  The former reaver was already reaching into a pouch and pulling free a waxed coil. “I do,” he said, “only it’s for the shorter sort o’bow. Not sure it’ll work on somethin’ that long.” He gestured to the curved bow cased on his back.

  Teague frowned. “Best not trouble about it, then. It’ll just snap, and waste is a sin.” She looked to Allystaire, her frown turning contemplative. “Er, is it a sin, for us? I mean, seems that way.”

  Allystaire chuckled lightly. “I should say that in our Temple, Teague, the only real sin is our failure to love and to aid one another as we can. However,” he added, “waste ought to be avoided as much as we might. I know where you can get a long enough string.”

  The half-masked woman nodded, and glanced at the bow on Norbert’s back. “What good is a bow that short, anyway?”

  “It’s what I know t’shoot,” Norbert said with a shrug. “Might know a trick or two already.”

  “A trick?” Allystaire looked to the tall but no longer gangly youth. “I find I do not much like the sound of it. What do you mean?”

  “I’ll show you later,” Norbert said. “But if it works, I think it’ll be useful. Faith.”

  Allystaire grumbled lightly but said nothing to Norbert. He did address the rest of the Order, such as it was. “Come on, then. I assume that most of you know the rudiments of wrestling and fist-fighting, but that is where we start.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The Will and the Mother

  Turns later, Allystaire and his gaggle of squires dragged themselves through the door of the Inn, sore and soaked in sweat. Many moved stiffly, or clutched at their newly-healed limbs or muscles.

  For his part, Allystaire felt as if his legs were made of lead, and his left shoulder throbbed in pain where Mattar had managed to throw him, the only one of the squires who did when he had wrestled them one after another. He wanted to reach for it, massage it, even channel Her gift and heal it.

  Instead, he directed them to a long table, kept his body stiffly upright and his steps easy, as if nothing troubled him.

  “Eat well and sleep fast,” Allystaire said. “We will be at it again and again, day after day, for as long as we can.”

  They sank gratefully onto benches, slumping against the table. Allystaire looked about, saw Idgen Marte and Andus Carek sitting at a table together, talking quietly. Gideon sat with them, watching the bard holding forth about something, moving his hands in the air to demonstrate some point or other. Almost as soon as Allystaire’s eyes were upon him, Gideon turned to face him, then back to the pair he sat with, lifting a hand, then standing and looking back to the paladin. The boy gestured towards the hearth and the chairs sat near it.

  Allystaire nodded and joined him there, sinking gratefully into a seat, trying not to let his fatigue show. Gideon joined him, slipping into a chair without a sound. He looked into the hearthfire for a moment, his fingers moving curiously against his lap and his stomach, the backs of his hands turned towards Allystaire, wrists curved, fingers moving slowly, concentration on his features.

  “What are you doing, lad?”

  Gideon looked up, uncharacteristically startled. “Thinking over some of what Andus Carek was telling me.”

  “And what is that?”

  The boy shrugged evasively. “Nothing important.”

  “Gideon,” Allystaire said, “I know you do not do anything that you consider unimportant. I have the memories of many frustrating turns of fighting instruction to show for that. Please,” he added, leaning forward, trying to catch the boy’s eye. “Do not lie to me.”

  With a shrug, the boy mumbled an answer. “I’m learning to play the lute.”

  “Why is that unimportant?”

  “It doesn’t contribute to the defense of Thornhurst, the Mother’s Temple, the peace congress, or advance our aims in any way. It is—”

  “Gideon,” Allystaire said. “Do you remember what I have said about loving the world?”

  “It makes it harder to destroy.”

  “Yes. And I think that you would not do that even if you never held an instrument. Yet if doing so helps you to love the world all the more, there is no harm in it.”

  “I think it would,” Gideon said. “But it is difficult.” He frowned, turned to face Allystaire. “I am not used to finding something so hard.”

  “Have you not told me that Bhimanz
ir found you a most intractable apprentice? That you could not learn anything he tried to teach you?”

  “True,” the boy replied, “but that is not the same thing. He was trying to teach me something that I was born incapable of. When it comes to maths, to puzzles, and in many ways, music is both of those, I am not used to struggling.”

  “As far as I can tell, Andus Carek ought to be a fine teacher.”

  The boy shook his head. “He won’t teach me. Not directly. That’s why neither of us had a lute in our hands. He will explain some points of theory, ideas, show me in the air, but he says to touch the strings without payment and the observance of certain rituals would be to violate certain precepts. He cannot make me his student.”

  “Then who is teaching you? Or are you trying to learn yourself? And where did you get a lute, anyway?”

  “Idgen Marte.”

  That answer stunned Allystaire for a moment, but he rallied. “To which question?”

  “The first and the third both. She is out of practice, as she hasn’t played in some time. Years, even. And she is not the most patient of teachers.”

  Allystaire laughed lightly. “I should think not. I did not even know she played.”

  Gideon turned to face him, frowning and raising one thin brow. “Sometimes you are as unobservant as she and Torvul claim you are.”

  “Perhaps,” Allystaire said. “Now, I daresay you did not wish to speak to me about your lute lessons. What, then, do you need to say?”

  “I have been thinking over some statements the Goddess has made, and things that Cerisia said, and some of my own observations.”

  “Is this driving to a point?”

  “The first god I was ever in contact with was the God of the Caves. He was old, lonely, senile, even. But he cannot always have been that way.”

  “Yes, and?”

  “And the Mother has said the She would not abide what Braech has become. Cerisia came to us initially suggesting that the Mother signaled a change in Fortune, not a new temple.”