by Angus Wells
“How’d you find all this out?”
Abram Jaymes’s blunt question wiped the smile from the Inquisitor’s face. “I raised the dead,” he answered equably, “and they told me.”
Jaymes swallowed, his grizzled face rigid. “An’ what do we do now?” he asked tightly.
“What I said,” Talle replied. “We must capture a savage.”
“That,” Jaymes said succinctly, “will not be easy.”
“I understood,” Talle said with horridly reasonable menace, “that you know the wilderness. You are the scout, no? So lead us to them, and leave the rest to me.”
“Why d’you want one?” Jaymes pushed his plate away as if, like Var, he lost his appetite in Talle’s presence, in the Inquisitor’s bland acceptance of horrid and arcane practices. “Don’t you know all you need to? Why d’you want another body to chop up?”
Talle mopped greasy gravy with a hunk of old bread, and for a moment did not speak. Then he looked at Jaymes as might, Var thought, watching, a cat observe a cornered mouse.
“Do you argue my command?”
Jaymes shrugged, and suddenly Var became aware that the scout wore a brace of pistols on his belt and that his hands fell toward them. No less Talle, whose smile grew wide and ugly.
“Those shall not harm me. But I can do you great hurt.”
Jaymes’s hands returned to the table, toying with a crust. “I don’t doubt you can, Inquisitor.” He managed to invest the title with insult. “But what if you do? You and the major go ridin’ off into the wilderness woods all on your own? You think you can find your way through the trees? You think you can find the savages you’re lookin’ for without me? You think you’d last long in the snow and the forests?” He paused, holding Talle’s suddenly outraged gaze long enough to cut a plug of tobacco and insert it in his mouth, begin to chew. Var admired his courage. “I’d reckon you’d both be dead inside a week. From the cold or arrows, whichever, or maybe starve to death. I surely to God don’t believe you’d find any savages. But they’d find you.”
For long moments Var feared the Inquisitor should work his magic on the scout, thought that Talle should raise his hands and hex Jaymes as he’d done the recalcitrant settlers. He wondered, aghast at his conflicted loyalties, which he would support. But then Talle shrugged and said, “You say I need you?”
Jaymes nodded. “You want to survive out here, yes. You don’t understand this land. You think you can come here an’ tell folks what to do—jump this way an’ just so high—but this isn’t Evander. This is a whole new world, with new thinkin’ an’ a whole different set o’ rules. God knows,” suddenly he smiled, exposing tobacco-stained teeth, “that’s what you just said, no? An’ for that—to live in the wilderness—you need me.”
“I could hex you,” Talle said. “I could make you obey me.”
“Sure you could.” Jaymes leant away to direct a stream of black liquid into the fire. “But don’t your magic attract the demons? So if you hex me, I’d likely be a real attraction, an’ then the demons’d likely tell the savages where I am—which would be with you—an’ then they’d all come lookin’, no?”
Var could applaud the argument; Talle could only scowl and duck his head in agreement.
“So best,” Jaymes said, “if you don’t hex me, eh?”
“Perhaps,” Talle allowed slowly, “it were better I don’t. But …”
“I’ll bring you safe as I can into the wilderness,” Jaymes interrupted. “I’ll do my best to find you a savage. But you don’t ever threaten me again.”
For long, slow moments the two men stared at one another, then Talle raised an agreeing hand. A lie, Var thought, that should be broken soon as Abram was no longer useful.
“An’ when we leave this godforsaken fort,” Jaymes said, “you’d best do what I say. You want to survive the wilderness, then you’d best agree to that.”
Talle said, “Very well. You are, after all, the expert in such matters.”
“Yes,” Jaymes agreed, “I am. An’ now I’m going to find me a place to sleep that don’t stink. I’ll see you in the morning. Major.” He waved at Var and went away.
“The man is incorrigible.” Talle reached for the bottle Jaymes had left on the table. “But we need him, so we shall use him.”
“And when you’ve got what you want?” Var asked. “Does he find us a savage for you to …”
“Question,” Talle supplied. “Why, then we shall need him to bring us back to Grostheim.”
“And when we reach Grostheim?” Var asked.
Talle smiled and shrugged and gave no answer—which was all the answer Var needed.
Abram Jaymes lay wrapped in his bedroll, his seamed features impassive as Var spoke.
“He plans to hang you. He’ll use you and then have his revenge.”
The scout eased up just long enough to empty his mouth of tobacco. “I figured that,” he said amiably, “but there’s been folk looked to kill me afore, an’ I’m still alive.”
“He’s an Inquisitor,” Var said.
“Sure.” Jaymes rearranged his blankets. “But he don’t know the wilderness, nor much about Salvation.”
“He owns magic.” Var set out his bedding. “He can hex you and hang you, and no one will argue his right.”
Jaymes chuckled. “You thought he was about to do just that, no? An’ you was wondering whether you’d go with him or with me.”
“Damn you,” Var said, “you know where my loyalties are.”
“Maybe,” Jaymes answered. “But do you?”
Var asked, “What do you mean?”
“Work it out” was all the answer Jaymes gave.
They set out the next day, not to the forts Var had sooner checked—though he assumed them likely in the same disarray as Fort Harvie—but directly into the wilderness. It was a high, clear day, with no threat of snow and the sun burning bright out of a steely sky. Crows rode the air currents above, and a lonely hawk. They passed the fort’s cemetery, where Matieu Fallyn’s body lay with the others slain in that first attack. Var thought they likely rode to their deaths, but could not argue against Talle’s decision—for was the Inquisitor correct in his necromantic prognostications then all Salvation stood in dreadful jeopardy and he could see no alternative save to trust the man, and pray he was right.
The forest stood threatening before them, a vast swath of darkness stretching across the western horizon, cut as if wounded by the wagon road, the great mountains beyond no more than a cloudy line under the hard sky.
Somewhere in there, Var thought, are the savages. And their demonic allies? What if those creatures achieve physical form? He thought on what he’d seen—the golden-armored rider on his awful horse, and those other warriors on their indescribable beasts—and stroked the hammer of his rifle for the comfort of honest steel, a thing he could understand. It should serve him well against the savages, he thought. But the others? Even did they become corporeal, could powder and shot slay them? He wished he had his marine company with him.
Nor less was he concerned for the fate of Abram Jaymes. He had no doubt but that Talle would look to extract his revenge once the scout’s usefulness was ended, and had no wish to see Jaymes die. He felt a great fondness for the grizzled, foul-smelling scout, and none at all for the Inquisitor. But Jared Talle was his commanding officer and he was sworn to support and defend Evander and the Autarchy, and did it come to that line he hoped he might avoid, he could not help but wonder which side he’d take.
He raised his eyes to a sky that offered him no answers and followed Jared Talle down the forest trail that Matieu Fallyn had taken to his death.
29
Out of the Woods and …
“We leave the animals here.”
Abram Jaymes indicated the clearing he’d chosen. A stream ran through, swift enough to disrupt the ice, flanked by sufficient tall pines that the deep bowl might remain invisible to passersby not seeking three intruders. Scrub grew between the trees, holly a
nd other bushes that served to conceal the depression, and he’d flanked it with rope that the beasts not stray. There was forage under the snow and sufficient fodder packed on the second mule that the animals could survive for some days at least. Five, he calculated, wondering if he should be still alive in that time, or the horses and mules still there. He felt a terrible fear that he would die on this mad venture. But even so, he had given his word—less to that dark raven bastard Talle than to Tomas Var—and he’d keep it, even were his life forfeit.
Nor less Salvation, he thought, was Talle correct in his assumptions of demonic interference. Almost, he laughed, thinking that Talle’s interference was not much different. Was there much difference between one form of demon and another? He didn’t know. He had little experience of hell’s minions, save in the form of the Autarchy he despised, and the Inquisitor surely seemed as evil as any savage or ghost Jaymes had encountered. But Var—Major of Marines Tomas Var was a bird of different hue, and Jaymes could not but help feeling hopeful that the major understood.
And live: he checked the last of his camouflagings and brought the Hawkins rifle to his shoulder.
“Let’s go hunting, gentlemen.”
“Where?” Talle asked, gesturing irritably at the surrounding mass of the forest, all shadowy under the pale winter sun.
“This way.” Jaymes beckoned, bringing the Inquisitor and the major up through the stream to where tumbled rocks afforded footing that might not be seen; from there to a patch of wind-bared ground where only pine needles lay. “This is a game trail, see?”
Talle shook his head, strands of lank black hair flapping about his face; Var, more knowledgeable, nodded.
“We follow this,” Jaymes explained with exaggerated patience, “so that our tracks get lost amongst the others. Then we find an ambush site an’ wait.”
“For what?” Talle demanded irritably.
“For your savages,” Jaymes answered. “What else?”
“I can use magic,” Talle said, “to bring them to us.”
“Sure you could. But how many? An’ what about the demons? Listen, Inquisitor, I’d like to get out of here alive.” Jaymes smiled sweetly as he could. “An’ bring at least the major with me. So you best do what I say now—this is my country we’re in.”
Talle scowled and said nothing; Jaymes suppressed a chuckle as he followed the black-clad figure up the slope.
They walked for half a day before Jaymes decided on a suitable location, and then settled his company beside the trail. Var could see that it was heavy with tracks, and he wondered if the scout could truly discern the shapes of men’s feet from the marks of the animals. Talle complained as Jaymes ordered him to lie down and covered him with a square of tarpaulin, over which the scout shoveled snow until only the Inquisitor’s angry dark eyes showed from beneath the covering. Across the way, Jaymes took position beside Var.
“Was that necessary?” the officer of marines asked as they crouched behind a thicket. “Covering him like that?”
“It keeps him quiet, don’t it?” Jaymes returned, and grinned. “Wouldn’t you sooner he was quiet?”
Var resisted answering in the affirmative for all he smiled back at the scout. Instead he asked, “How long shall we wait?”
Jaymes shrugged. “No knowing, Major. They might come sooner or later. Maybe tonight; maybe not for days. But they use this trail, so …”
Var nodded and hoped it be soon; he’d have this thing done and over with. The more he saw of the Inquisitor Talle’s practices, the less he liked them. He hoped it be soon and they return to Grostheim with the knowledge that might defend Salvation. Save then Jared Talle would undoubtedly look to hang Abram Jaymes.…
But they came that night: first a deer that trod the path wary, many-pronged antlers ducking and weaving in the filtered moonlight as the animal tested the wintry air; then three savages, clad all in furs and rawhide, with nocked bows in their hands and eyes downturned to the trail they followed.
The ambuscaders did as Jaymes had ordered.
Var confronted the first man, springing out from cover to drive his saber clean through the savage’s belly. Jaymes came not far behind, swinging his rifle to slam the stock against the face of the third man as Talle sprang up and flung himself on the second.
Var’s target was slain in the instant, carved through by the saber that pierced his heart. Jaymes’s was smashed unconscious. Talle muffled his in the tarpaulin and struggled with the burden until Jaymes tapped, almost gently, on the upraised head and the savage fell silent.
“Bring them.” Talle again assumed control. “I need the two alive.”
“Best cover our tracks first.” Jaymes faced the Inquisitor with obstinacy writ hard on his dirty face. “Lest you want their brothers trailin’ us back.”
Talle snarled a curse, then ducked his head. “Your country, old man.”
“You better believe it,” Jaymes said, and hauled the slain savage off the trail to hide the corpse amongst the snowy undergrowth. He came back and set to scuffing up the snow. “Who’s carryin’ them?” he asked, looking at the Inquisitor.
Talle appeared outraged at the suggestion.
Jaymes said, “You an’ me, then, Major. Inquisitor—why don’t you use that tarpaulin to sweep our backtrail?”
Talle looked further outraged, but he took the canvas sheet and set to wiping out their tracks as Var and Jaymes each shouldered a supine body and began to move, as fast as they could under their burdens, back to the hollow where the horses were hid.
“They’ll be missed come mornin’ at the earliest,” Jaymes said, “an’ if God’s on our side, later—so we got a little time to get out of here before their friends come looking. So let’s ride!”
Without further preamble, he heaved one unconscious savage onto the pack mule, lashing hands and feet in place across the crosstree saddle, then set the other on his own mount. The mule snorted irritably and Jaymes slapped it across the muzzle.
“You’ll go afoot?” Var asked. “Can you keep up?”
“I reckon,” Jaymes answered. “Can you keep the mules on the line?”
Var nodded; Talle only sat his horse, impatient to depart.
“Then ride out,” Jaymes said. “I’ll cover your backtrail an’ I’ll see you at the fort.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll be waitin’ for you.”
Talle needed no further bidding: he beckoned that Var follow him and drove harsh heels against his horse’s flanks. Var hesitated a moment, looking back at Jaymes, wanting to say something but unable to find the words. He settled on a nod and a smile and went after Talle.
Jaymes watched them go, thinking that it would be easy to put a rifle ball into the Inquisitor’s back, and at the same time wondering if the bullet would—could—kill the man. And then what Var’s reaction would be: he wanted the major on his side. Talle’s throat he’d cheerfully slit, and not feel a grain of remorse … save he wondered if the Inquisitor was necessary now, to help defeat the wilderness folk and their demonic allies.
He hid the tracks as best he could—knowing the while that the savages would find them if they came looking—and took after the horses. He supposed Talle would perform his filthy magic back at Fort Harvie, and did not look much forward to that witnessing, save that it appeared the future of Salvation was at stake, and therefore—perhaps—the Inquisitor was necessary.
Do the ends justify the means? he wondered as he went after them. If Talle can defeat the demons, then do I go along with him? Or will that just hand him command? God, but it would be so much easier if the demons slew Talle—unless I need him to make Salvation free. Abram Jaymes amused himself, as he loped long-legged through the snow, with musings on which threat was worse: Jared Talle and the Autarchy he’d see the New World freed from, or the demons he knew too little about … until Talle gave him that knowledge.
Best, he decided, to let the Inquisitor have his way for now and decide what to do when they got back to Grostheim. Snow fell on his face, dislo
dged by a bird that took flight at his passing, and he laughed softly, wondering how Major Tomas Var should take the news that he led what little resistance existed in Salvation. He liked Var; it would be a pity if he must kill the major.
Reluctantly, Var did as the Inquisitor ordered, hauling each savage from the mules and manhandling them—awake now—into the kitchens. Still obeying, he secured them each on a table, arms and legs lashed firmly in place before he slit their crude leather clothing so that they lay naked, screaming imprecations.
“What now?”
“Build up the fire, eh?” Talle smiled. “It’s cold in here.”
Var thought the man’s smile colder and did as he was bade.
“Now leave us,” Talle said. “This is not for your eyes.”
Var hesitated. Talle studied him a moment, as if he looked upon another specimen suitable for necromantic dissection, and Var quit the room, busying himself with the animals and wondering on the fate of Abram Jaymes. He saw the horses and the mules bedded and fed and went to the barracks, stoking up the fire there, setting water to boiling as he examined what supplies were left.
It was near dark when the first scream exploded across the yard. Var stiffened, almost dropping the cup he held. He had heard men screaming before—men shot or bayoneted, men struck by cannonballs, men struck by sabers or trampled down by charging cavalry horses—but he had never heard such a scream as that, and it chilled his blood. Almost, he went across the yard to … he was unsure … protest? To watch? Instead, he told himself he had a duty to obey, that Jared Talle was his commanding officer and dedicated to the Autarchy, doing what he did only to secure Salvation’s future. But he could not, entirely, shake off the notion that Talle did what he did from sheer enjoyment.
Then the door flung open and Abram Jaymes came in, snow-sheeted and shivering.
“Dear God, it’s cold out there.” The scout glanced back, through the still-open door. “What’s he doin’?”
“Whatever”—Var shrugged miserably—“Inquisitors do.”