Crusade

by Daniel M Ford

  It galled, to be lying in wait. Men like them were not made for the ambush or the stratagem.

  No.

  The hot-blooded rush into battle was the glory of Braech’s berzerkers, and lying on a forest floor, trying not to move, trying to will themselves into invisible stillness, this was no fit work for men like them.

  Even the thought of it, the word “battle” floating across his mind had Kormaukr tightening the muscles of his shoulders, squeezing the earth he laid upon.

  Suddenly there was the sound of hooves moving on the road they watched. He crouched, tensing every muscle in his body as men rode into sight.

  The lead horse, some huge grey monster. Atop it, in gleaming armor, the paladin. Kormaukr was certain it was him.

  He wanted nothing more than to rush forward, then and there, to tackle the man from his saddle and rip the ridiculous armor away, to plunge his gauntleted hands into the soft, weak, southern skin beneath.

  But he was bid to wait, and watch, and so he watched the entire column slowly move.Kormaukr only counted eleven horses in the column that passed them. He suppressed the urge to laugh with the Honored Choiron’s demand for stealth. Eleven, against the band of Braechsworn Islandmen waiting for them?

  He waited until they were long past, then stood, signaling for his brethren to do the same. They popped up, cloaks swirling about their legs. Then Kormaukr let out his laughter, and the other Dragon Scales joined him. Then the three set off at a casual ground-eating lope southward.

  The Choiron’s commands echoed in his mind again. Find the boy they call the Will. Kill him, in any way that you can, but be certain he is dead. Fail, and you will be buried beyond the reach of the Sea Dragon forever.

  An eternity on land was a fate not to be contemplated, Kormaukr knew. But after all, with what strength could one weak southern boy hope to meet a trio of Dragon Scales?

  * * *

  “Most folk are well after their first sleep by now,” Torvul said, as he turned the corner on the shelves behind the bar, where Gideon sat on the floor by the cold well, lute in his lap, open case on the floor next to him.

  “I do not need as much sleep as they do,” the boy said. “And you understand why.”

  “I s’pose I do,” Torvul said, “but I haven’t the vigor of youth any longer. Night is lookin’ a bit short to me, from here.”

  “How’d you find me? I was trying to be unobtrusive.”

  “I might be old,” the dwarf replied, then tapped an earlobe with one fingertip, “but I’ve still got the best ears in this town. I followed the notes. You’re gettin’ better.”

  “I am still not much more than a fumbler, or so Idgen Marte tells me.”

  “You could be well on your way to a legendary career as a lutist and she’d still tell ya that.”

  “It’s true, though,” Gideon said, “not just her bluster. She would know. Torvul, I tell you that once upon a time, she saw music the way she now sees a fight.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Gideon sighed. “She can see all the possibilities of a fight. Take Allystaire as a counter example. He sees who his biggest threat is and he attacks it, directly, head on, reasoning that if he can be hit, it means he can hit back, and that he’ll win that exchange. But Idgen Marte, and part of this is the Mother’s Gift, she sees all of the field. Everyone on it, everything that they can do or might do, and where upon it she should move to do the most good. She sees this through the interaction of light and dark to make shadow. When she was a musician, that was how she saw what she did; every place where sound and silence came together to make a song. And she knew exactly where and how she could fit into each piece of it. She can tell when I’m going to blunder up a stretch of a song before I even get to it. And from what she’ll tell me, she wasn’t accounted nearly as great a lutist as she was a singer.”

  “She’s never talked t’me about any o’this,” Torvul remarked.

  “I don’t think she’s talked to anyone about it since she ran away from her home, Torvul. I wouldn’t bring it up if I were you.” The boy frowned. “I shouldn’t even have told you.”

  “Pay it no mind, boy. I can keep a secret as well as stone itself.” Torvul shifted how he stood so that he leaned against the shelf, heard some crockery rattle as he did. “What’re you doin’?”

  “Practicing, and looking at the well. I know this is the key, Torvul. I just can’t figure out how to open it.” He paused, and then together, boy and dwarf said, “Then it makes this the lock.”

  Together, they laughed softly, and Gideon set his lute down in the open case. “Why were you out talking with Keegan today?”

  “How’d ya know that?”

  Gideon shrugged as he stood up, smoothed his clothing with one flattened hand. “I was following Allystaire’s progress up to Ashmill Bridge.”

  “And how is their progress?”

  “Slow, because of the inexperienced riders. They should make the town in another two or three turns. They might not be let in until dawn.”

  Torvul chuckled quietly at that. “And here I thought you understood Allystaire.”

  “Allow me amend my statement; the town may not want to let them in until dawn.” He frowned. “I thought about taking a look at the town itself, but I felt as if I would be seen, that I would give something away. Once Allystaire is there it does not matter, but until then.” Here, the boy shrugged.

  “What’s he ridin’ into? Sorcerer?”

  “No,” Gideon said, shaking his head. “If it were that, I would go to him, no matter what he said.”

  “Why haven’t they ever simply attacked him openly?”

  “Besides needing their games and machinations to stay connected to the world? They’re cowards. I think most do not start out as such. It takes a certain courage, after all, to do what they do to themselves in the pursuit of power. But it is a mean, grasping kind of courage, the kind that turns quickly to cowardice once they have the object of their desire. They learned long ago that they could achieve their ends without exposing themselves to danger; why change that now?”

  “Fair enough.” The dwarf’s jaw cracked in a yawn, and as he lowered the hand he covered his mouth with, he said, “We ought to at least be after a nap now. Can be up and after it again when you think Allystaire needs you.”

  Gideon started to nod his head in agreement, then suddenly looked up sharply. “You never answered my question, Torvul. Why did you go seeking Keegan?”

  The dwarf shrugged. “With Allystaire, his band o’knightly thugs, or thuggish knights, whichever ya please, and Idgen Marte gone, this place is a bit short on what ya might call conventional defenders. I wanted t’make sure we could count on them, if it came to it. Besides, Keegan and his lot owe you somethin’, and it wouldn’t be the worst idea to have a guard around ya when necessary.”

  Gideon sighed faintly. “I’m not sure that’s necessary.” He bent down and closed his lute case, pulling the straps through the buckles and closing it firmly, then lifting it carefully in one hand.

  “Remember, one of the sorcerers we faced died with an Islandman’s axe in his back. You can’t see everything around you all the time and protect yourself. Besides,” he added, putting a hand on Gideon’s shoulder, “I doubt it’ll matter much. T’bed now.”

  They had gone only a few steps away from the bar when Mol’s voice sounded sharply in their heads. To the Temple. Now.

  Torvul was just opening his mouth to say something when Gideon slapped a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. Then Torvul had the sensation of dissolving into near nothingness, of the things around them blurring, and moving at an unmeasurable speed. Suddenly the world resolved itself again, with the pair of them standing at the altar along with Mol, whose face was grimly set.

  “Braechsworn are going to attack the village,” she was saying, and Torvul felt his heart sink for a moment.


  The brief temptation towards despair was suddenly replaced with a roaring hot furnace of anger. “They think they can fool me, and find us unprepared? Me?” He was only dimly aware that he had roared the words, or that Mol and Gideon were staring at him oddly, because they had come out in the Dwarfish tongue.

  He took a deep breath, and more words rolled out of his barrel chest, crashing like the stamping of huge hammers dropping upon rocks. “The Wit of the Mother and the last student of the last Stonesinger is not to be trifled with in his home,” he said, and it was as if the anger within him was the hammer loosing the bright ore from the stones of his words.

  * * *

  Allystaire sat silent and still on Ardent’s back, waiting. Behind him, he knew, were most of the rest of the Order, waiting for some signal. Few of them were as utterly silent as he was. He could hear the movement of their armor or weapons as they breathed or shifted their weight.

  Only the horse beneath him closely mimicked Allystaire’s stillness.

  Cannot wait forever, he told himself as he let a breath out through his nostrils, a bit at a time. Can’t expect the boy to watch the entire time. He has to sleep.

  In fact, Gideon probably was asleep, which was likely why Allystaire hadn’t felt his presence hanging over them for some time. It was a time to be asleep, if the town resting quietly along the river was any model. If there were any fires or lamps still throwing light from the windows of Ashmill Bridge at this turn, his eyes couldn’t pick them out. There was only the sprawl of buildings, the bridge rising in a graceful arc beyond them, the massive old mill beside it.

  Behind him, he heard Harrys drawing breath, ready to ask him a question. He lifted a gauntleted hand, and the grizzled old horseman settled back into silence. He could manage it only a moment, so Allystaire turned to him preemptively.

  “We know nothing of the situation,” he said, mouthing the words slowly, as quietly as he could manage. “We will wait on the Shadow’s return.”

  Harrys was close enough, and the moon behind the clouds just bright enough, for Allystaire to make out the shape of the other man’s mouth closing in a line. And then the sudden shock, eyes flying wide open at something beyond Allystaire, a hand falling to the falchion at his belt.

  He startles too easily. Idgen Marte’s voice sounded in his head, casual and calm as always.

  He rolled his eyes, confident she’d see it. They have come too far on too little sleep and face a fight against unknown foes. For most of them, their first fight in months, or years.

  Well, she said, they’ve no scouts out, so all your careful quiet is for naught. Gather them around and let me speak with ‘em.

  Before you tell them, tell me. How is it?

  She eyed him as a cloud drifted over the moon. Grim.

  He nodded, slid down off Ardent’s saddle and waved a hand, beckoning the men to him. He made sure to keep a strong hand on the grey destrier’s reins as they crowded around, as he could sense as much as see the stallion eyeing them.

  Once they’d gathered, Idgen Marte sighed. “Here’s how it is. There’s at least a dozen Islandmen in there,” she began, her voice quiet. “If that’s how many I could count on a quick scout, surely there are more. But they’ve set a trap and I’m not sure how t’trip it without someone gettin’ hurt.”

  “Getting hurt is what I am here for,” Allystaire offered.

  Idgen Marte shook her head. “I’m afraid that knockin’ on the door and killin’ them all isn’t gonna work this time. There’s a sort of square, used for market days and such, near the bridge. That’s where they’ve set up. No good approach to’em without being seen. And they’ve got captives.” She drew her bottom lip up hard. “They’re bound, gagged, and tied t’stones. The river’s right there, and it runs fast and deep.” She let that implication sink in. A smattering of curses came from the men of the Order. Allystaire felt anger rise in him, felt the first stirrings of the music of the Mother in his limbs.

  “There’s too many for me t’free on my own, I think,” she said. “They’re watchin’ ‘em careful, have baffled lanterns. I think I could get t’one or two, but then it’d be a simple thing to shove ‘em into the water and watch ‘em slip.”

  “Have they any bows?” Harrys spat after he asked his question.

  “None I could see,” Idgen Marte said, “doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”

  “If I ride in and present a target, would that distract them long enough for you to free the captives?”

  “There’s nearly a score of folk tied up by the river, Allystaire,” Idgen Marte answered. “I can’t possibly move fast enough.”

  “Y’said there’s no good approach through the town,” Mattar said, taking a step through the ring of men, rolling his big shoulders beneath his hauberk. “What about on the river itself?”

  Allystaire turned to look at the big man, whose hands rested on a pair of handaxes stuck through a belt. “What do you have in mind?”

  Mattar shrugged lightly. “I know how t’move fast and quiet and I’m a strong swimmer. If I went wide o’the town and got in the river, made m’way down along the bank, I could be up beneath the bridge in a little more’n a turn.”

  Allystaire looked to Idgen Marte. “You could put yourself along the bank as well?”

  “Not in the water, but yes,” she allowed. “Still, two of us to deal with a score of folk right by the water…”

  “Who else here can swim well? Not just make his way, but truly swim?” Allystaire looked back among the men of the Order, saw Gaston’s hand go up.

  “I did m’time on the water as a boarder,” the curly-headed man said.

  “Then you and Mattar had best strip your armor and make for the river,” Allystaire said. “Idgen Marte can watch for you and relay to me when you are in place. Go.”

  The two men began stripping off their mail shirts. Gaston put down his spear and unhooked his scabbard from his belt, setting it aside. Mattar pulled one of his axes free and held it, haft out, to the slighter man. “Better to cut a rope,” the pioneer offered.

  With a smile, Gaston took it and stuck it through his belt. “Don’t I know it.”

  The two set off at a loping run, going wide around the spread-out clusters of buildings. Allystaire silently blessed the lack of a wall.

  Allystaire watched them go for a moment, took a deep breath. “They killed a man to send me a message. If I ride straight in at them—”

  “They might have bows ready to fire,” Idgen Marte said.

  Allystaire shrugged. “I do not see another way. Just because I ride in first does not mean I ride in alone. If Harrys, Tibult, and Armel ride in behind me, Teague and Norbert watch for bowmen, and Miklas and Johonn act as our reserve, I think we make the most of our chances.”

  “Lot of open ground t’cover.”

  “Open ground is where horsemen excel,” Allystaire said, to approving nods from his fellow lancers and Harrys. “The more I think on it, the more I think that we have every advantage. The best case is that we are dealing with fanatics who are trying to make a statement; the worst, we are dealing with warriors. We will answer them as soldiers. As knights. Warriors rarely have an answer for knights working in concert. And fanatics never will.”

  * * *

  Gideon watched as Torvul strode purposefully out of the Temple, waving a hand behind him. The roll of Dwarfish words rumbling out of him was briefly interrupted for an interjection of the Barony tongue.

  “The two o’you stay here,” he said. “Till I know what’s happenin’.”

  “I can tell you what is happening, Wit,” Mol said sharply. “If you will contain yourself long enough to listen. It is three men—”

  By then, Torvul’s angry footsteps had carried him to the door and beyond. Mol turned imploringly to Gideon.

  “It is only three men, Mol,” he said. “Torvul
has dealt with worse.”

  “It is not three ordinary men,” she said. “When I laid my touch upon their minds I felt a chaos, a kind of madness, like nothing I have ever known. I could make no sense of them, nor could I speak to them.”

  Gideon felt his skin grow cold as Mol talked, and one word only tolled like a solemn bell across his thoughts. Dragon Scales.

  He pushed his Will beyond the limits of his body, felt his form slump against the altar, and rose up above the Temple. As had become his custom, though no one—that he knew of—could see him when he existed purely in the form of his own Will, Gideon thought himself into the shape of a marsh hawk. It allowed him a more directed use of his power, allowed him to guide himself more narrowly. Without that focus, Gideon knew only too well how easy it would be to become lost, and disconnected from the world.

  A half moon lit the night brightly enough, despite some cloud cover, for anyone about at the turn to see their way. But the Will of the Mother did not rely upon his eyes; he let other senses loose upon the village below him.

  It was easiest to know where Torvul was, to feel him as color, as song, as idea. He was a low, resonant note, an echo down a perfectly smooth stone hallway; he was a bar of silver edged in glowing blue flame, moving through a quiet night with angry purpose. Mol, directly below him, was a steady warmth, a note in a high register, clear and pure, an unwavering disc of orange, a sun in miniature that warmed but did not burn.

  There were other tiny pricks of will-light scattered around him, calling for his attention, in Thornhurst or near it, but even to him, they were too indistinct, too vague, for him to see clearly.

  For just a moment, Gideon was tempted to let his sense wander even farther, to rise higher so that he could take in the entire world, and all of those in whom manifested the minor of what he now felt.

  Instead he was drawn to the three presences that seemed to him almost indistinguishable from one another: a harsh grey-blue that throbbed with a pounding like the ocean. They could only be the men Torvul had gone to confront.