by Alex Bledsoe
He looked at me blankly. “Do I know you?”
I used the voice that, in my day, made new recruits wet their pants. I caught Kay’s admiring glance out of the corner of my eye. “Your ass will get to know my boot really well if you keep giving me lip. Now get up here and drive!”
The bare-chested young man quickly climbed up and took the reins.
“What’s your name?” I demanded.
“Ollie. I’m with—”
“I didn’t ask for your goddamned life story, did I? Or would you rather I keep calling you “pissant,” because that’s fine with me.” He stared at me, and I added, “Are you a moron? Let’s go! This coffin’s supposed to be at the parley tent three hours ago!”
He yelled at the horses, and they started forward so abruptly I nearly tumbled out of the wagon. Kay covered his mouth so Ollie wouldn’t see him laugh.
* * *
WE got halfway through the camp before someone finally stopped us. A tall, wide-shouldered man with a missing eye and a permanent scowl stepped right in our path with no apparent doubt the horses would stop for him. They did.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, and pointed at the coffin.
“It’s a coffin, what do you think?” Ollie said before I could answer. I realized with a start that he was imitating my own tough-guy voice. Now I struggled not to laugh.
The tall man did not. He narrowed his good eye and said, “Do you know who I am?”
Ollie’s braggadocio broke like a paper-thin dam. “Yes, Captain Ivy, I’m sorry, sir.”
Ivy chewed his lip thoughtfully, looked at Kay and me and the coffin, then said, “Somebody better tell me the story about this or we’ll add three more corpses to the fire.”
“Sure,” I said. “General Medraft sent for this coffin personally. It’s something he wants to show King Marcus.”
Ivy walked slowly around the wagon. Others began to stop what they were doing and watch. If we drew too much attention, we’d never get away. Ivy reached the back of the wagon and patted the coffin lid. “Open it.”
“I don’t think you want to do that,” I said. I tried to project superiority, but didn’t do a very good job of it. Ivy was way too sure of himself.
“I think I do,” Ivy said, and smiled the way a wolf does when it finds an unattended fawn.
I looked around suspiciously, then motioned Ivy in close. He put his hand on his dagger as he leaned over the tailgate. I said quietly, “I don’t even know who’s in here. I met the general in Astolat before the rest of the army got there, and he told me go get this and bring it straight here. He said if anyone asked questions about it, I was supposed to make sure they never asked any more.”
I put in enough truth about Medraft’s activities in the last few days that I hoped my story sounded legitimate. Ivy’s expression didn’t change, but after a moment he nodded. “All right. But wait a minute.”
He looked around at the small crowd of watchers. “Jameson, you and … yeah, you and Barker. Get on this wagon and go with this guy. Do what he says.” Ivy turned back to me. “Give the general my regards.”
“I will,” I said. The irony threatened to choke me.
Jameson and Barker hopped into the back with me. Both were lean, long-muscled types with numerous white and pink scars on their bare arms. Jameson wore a necklace of mismatched baubles taken after battles. If he lived long enough, he’d realize that it was far scarier not to have the need to display trophies. Barker had a blank, dim expression and his hair fell in his eyes. His fingers tapped constantly; either he had more energy than he needed, or he took something to keep him alert. His bangs kept me from seeing if his pupils were affected.
The camp smells assailing me—sweat, mud, urine, burning meat, and metal—brought back memories I’d hoped to repress until my old age. And the worst part was, not all of them were unpleasant. When I saw two men laughing over their tankards as they sat beside a fire, I remembered the hours I’d spent doing the same thing, telling bullshit stories and calling bullshit on other people’s. After all, we’d faced death together, and even though it was just a job, it bonded us with shared experience. In the thick of battle the paid soldier took as many risks as the noble knights, and often more since we got bonuses based on results.
There was a difference, though, and it was crucial: we fought to fight, the knights fought to win. If they defeated us, the war ended. If we defeated them, we’d just hire out for the next war somewhere else. How well they did depended on how desperately they wanted the victory, and that usually came down to leadership. How well we did depended simply on how much we needed our pay.
There were the freaks on both sides, of course: men (and occasionally women) who enjoyed any excuse for killing. They were easy to spot, tough to stop, and ultimately did everyone a favor by attracting attention while the rest of us did our jobs. Their kills were usually less than you’d think, because after a while no one would engage them. They spent the latter part of the battle striding among corpses looking for someone to fight.
Following the battles were the celebrations. We always had plenty to drink, and plenty of willing (or not) girls. There were boys for the ones who went that way as well. And unlike regular soldiers, we celebrated whether we won or lost.
Without meaning to, I’d grown wistful and nostalgic over this period of my life. Which is why the universe had to balance things out by ensuring that I glanced to the side at just the right moment. “Stop,” I told Ollie.
He did so without question. I hopped out of the wagon.
“You need us?” Jameson asked.
“No,” I said.
Three crude tents circled a small fire, and weapons lay scattered about. The only person visible was a naked boy of about ten, who lay on his side. His wrists and ankles were tied to a stake. He looked up at me blankly, already numb from the horror he’d endured.
Willing. Or not. Yeah.
I drew my sword and cut the ropes. The boy slowly sat, his head down. “Get out of here,” I said. “Run toward the castle.”
He rubbed his wrists and shook his head.
I grabbed him by the hair and yanked him upright. “Did you hear me? Get going!”
“No,” he said hoarsely. “My mom’s in there.” He pointed to one of the tents.
“LaCrosse,” Kay said warningly, over the blood thundering in my head. I ignored it and tossed the tent flap aside.
There was a woman in the tent, at the moment its only occupant. She was naked as well and tied to the tent’s central pole. I cut her loose.
She sat up and turned hateful, rage-filled eyes on me. “Where’s my son?” she hissed.
“Outside. He wouldn’t leave without you.” I tossed her a blanket. “Go get him and run toward the castle. They’ll take you in.”
“They’re the ones who did this,” she snarled as she pulled the blanket around her shoulders. “King Marcus gave them permission.”
Aha. Now the destruction made sense. “Is that what they told you?”
She nodded.
I pulled her to her feet, more roughly than I probably should have. “The Knights of the Double Tarn are out there ready to defend the castle against these bastards. Think about that. Then take your son and run to them. Unless you like the way you’re being treated?”
I thought for a moment she might spit on me, but instead she rushed out. Through the open flap I saw her grab the boy by the wrist and drag him behind her. She dropped the blanket for the sake of speed and ran toward what I sincerely hoped was rescue.
As I stepped from the tent, its owner returned to camp. He saw me, then his captives fleeing in the distance. He was shorter and broader than me, like Agravaine but without the madness in his eyes. He was plenty pissed, though.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded. “That bitch was mine!”
Without a word I drove my sword into his belly. I ripped it upward as I removed it. I returned the sword to its scabbard as I walked away and climbed onto the wagon s
eat without watching him fall.
“What the hell was that all about?” Barker demanded.
“Yeah, that was somebody’s prize,” Jameson added. “We get to keep whatever we—”
I looked at them. Whatever they saw in my face silenced them. “Go,” I told Ollie. My nostalgia curdled in my belly.
“And make it fast,” Kay said. He nodded toward several men riding down the hill toward us, led by Ivy. I suppose he’d checked me out.
I grabbed the reins from Ollie and kicked him from the wagon. Kay drew his sword and put the tip at Jameson’s throat. Barker froze as well, too confused to make any move. I snapped the reins and shouted at the horses. We sprang forward and headed downhill at a full gallop. Ollie shouted curses after us.
Now it was a simple race. Either we got through the mercenary camp and into the open, or we didn’t. After all the secrets and ambiguities, it was nice to have things be so simple for a change.
I threw back my head and laughed.
chapter
THIRTY
I glanced back. Ivy and his men were also at a full gallop, gesturing for others to stop us. You’d have to be foolish to jump in front of a wide-open team going downhill, but fools in armor were common. And if one did try, the resulting collision would no doubt trip the horses and send us ass-over-teakettle across the grass.
As we neared the bottom of the hill and the mercenary army’s indistinct front line, men with swords ran up to either side of the road. They lunged and swung wildly as we shot past. The blades clattered against the sides of the wagon and managed to cut one of the reins. I saw red slashes on the horses’ flanks as well and felt the wet spray of horse blood and sweat flying back at me.
Then we were in the open. I looked back and saw Ivy and his friends slow down and stop. Without orders they wouldn’t follow us into the neutral no-man’s-land and risk precipitating the battle. They yelled insults, and a couple of badly aimed arrows whizzed overhead. I pulled on the remaining reins and slowed the wagon to a trot. The horses, terrified and injured, fought me at first but then obeyed.
Ahead across the field, the Knights of the Double Tarn outside the white parley tent shuffled in their heavy armor as they watched us approach. No light fancy-dress metal for them today. The sun reflected in blinding hot spots from it. I hated wearing full armor; I knew just how uncomfortable it would be on a day like this. But the men here, and in the defensive line beyond, and on the castle walls, held their positions in stoic silence. Most of them might lack experience, but at least they’d had training.
“You all right?” I called back to Kay.
“Fine, but we lost one of our strong backs.”
I looked back. Barker lay on the bed beside the coffin, nearly decapitated by a passing sword. Jameson’s own throat was shallowly sliced in places where the tip of Kay’s sword had bounced against his skin.
When we got close to the tent, I saw a round figure in bright lavender bouncing in frustration before the knights. It was Chauncey DeGrandis, lord of the manor, trying in vain to assert his lord-dom.
“But I demand to see the king!” he shrieked, his voice high like a woman’s. “This is my castle! Those are my supplies you’re hoarding!”
Two knights stepped around DeGrandis and into my path, swords drawn. A third leveled a crossbow at us. I stopped the wagon and showed my hands so they wouldn’t feel threatened.
One of them raised his visor, exposing his sweat-drenched face. He was one of the older veterans. “That’s it, friend, stop right there. Keep your hands where I can see them, all of you. Now what’s the meaning of this commotion?”
I did as ordered. Kay sat up straight and said, “It’s me.”
The knights all snapped to attention with a mass metallic click. I was so tired this struck me as ridiculously funny, and I began to giggle. Kay shook his head.
DeGrandis whirled on us like one of those vicious little dogs some women have instead of children. He pointed at me and said, “That’s him! That’s the killer! Arrest him at once! At once, I say!”
No one paid him any mind. “Sir Robert,” the knight who’d stopped us said. “Your neck—do you need a physician?”
“Get me a drink and we’ll see if it leaks,” Kay said. Two knights covered Jameson with their swords, and Kay climbed stiffly from the wagon. “First I need to know who’s inside that tent.”
“King Marcus, Queen Jennifer, and Sir Thomas Gillian.” The veteran nodded at DeGrandis. “And this guy, if we’d let him.”
“Where’s Medraft?”
“He’s not here yet. He wanted to meet at sunrise but hasn’t shown up. The king is … annoyed.”
“I bet. Get DeGrandis back inside the castle.”
“But—,” the purple man started to complain.
“Throw a pork roast at him if he won’t shut up,” Kay added.
Two of the knights took DeGrandis by the arms and pulled him bodily away. They visibly strained to support his bulk. He kept his legs straight so that his heels left tracks in the grass, disturbing a big mottled snake as they raked over it. “But this is my castle! Mine!”
I turned to Jameson. “All right, bring that coffin into the tent.”
He looked at the knights, then at me. He finally understood he’d been had. “I can’t carry it by myself.”
“Try,” I said flatly, and one of the knights prodded him.
It was awkward, but he did manage to get his arms around the box and lift it. I knew Jenny wasn’t heavy, and the coffin was made of light, thin wood. Kay led the way inside the tent, followed by Jameson. I brought up the rear.
It was dim and stuffy beneath the heavy canvas. In winter this kind of insulation would be luxurious, and on a normal summer day the tent’s sides would be open to let in the breeze. But this was a prebattle conference between opposing commanders, so privacy trumped comfort. It took a long moment for my eyes to pick out the figures from the furniture.
A large rug covered the grass, and a small, round table with four chairs was set up in the middle of it. Benches waited along the sides for those of insufficient rank to sit at the table.
King Marcus Drake, in full regalia including crown and scepter, turned in midpace with a swirl of his fur-edged official cape. He wore the same huge sword, the legendary Belacrux, at his waist. His deep blue tunic was sweaty around his neck and under his arms. “Bob!” he shouted in a mix of relief and anger. “Where’s Elliot?”
“Elliot’s not coming,” Kay said as he dropped to one knee. I thought at first he’d collapsed, but then realized he was just greeting his king. “I’m sorry, Marc. I barely got out of sight of the castle before I got jumped. I never had a chance to look for Elliot.”
“What?” the queen gasped. She stood on the opposite side of the table, in a simple dress devoid of any ornamentation. She wore the same kind of manacles Kay had put on me, with the chain slack but definitely present. “Is he … dead?”
I looked at her. Her face shone, and strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. The resemblance was absolutely staggering: if I didn’t know Jenny was in the box, I’d think she stood before me. No wonder it fooled Marcus.
“I don’t know,” Kay said, using one of the chairs to get to his feet. “But there’s just so many of them, I can’t see how even he could get through.”
Gillian stood quietly at ease near the tent’s wall. He wore a uniform but no armor. “That is unfortunate.”
The sight of him, after all the time I’d spent dreading his appearance, annoyed me. “Yeah, well, at least you didn’t have to come chasing after me. I came back, like I said I would.”
He looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
Kay laughed. It was a tight, harsh, barking sound, and everyone in the tent turned to him. He fought what appeared to be the giggles and said, “Hell, Eddie, I made that up. You really think we send the Knights of the Double Tarn out as roving assassins?” Kay shuddered as he struggled not to laugh, one hand pressed to the wound at his neck.
I stared at him. I was exhausted, pissed off, and no longer impressed by the world’s happiest kingdom. Then I used my arm to rake the royal finery from the table. The dishes, utensils, and crystal goblets hit the ground in a loud clatter, and Jennifer jumped back.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
I turned to Jameson. “Put the coffin on the table.”
He didn’t move, frozen in place by the outsize presence of King Marcus Drake. His mouth hung open in wonder.
“Do it!” I barked.
He did so, then dropped to his knees before Drake. The king looked at the mercenary, then at me. “Who is this man? And what is that coffin doing here?”
I nudged Jameson with my foot. When he looked up fearfully, I said softly, “Run.” He was out of the tent like a crossbow bolt.
I took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from my eyes. Gillian said quietly, “This conduct does merit an explanation, Mr. LaCrosse.”
“And it’ll get one,” I said, “as soon as all the players are here.” By now Medraft would know someone had broken through his lines bearing a coffin, and he’d have to come check it out. Then I could finish this.
A hand the size of a dinner plate grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, and again I found myself face-to-chest with Marcus Drake. He glared down at me like a storm cloud about to spit forth lightning. “I really don’t have the time or the patience for showboating today, Mr. LaCrosse. I’m facing an insurrection.”
I slapped his hand away. “You better have time for it.” I stood on tiptoe, leaned close, and spoke so softly only he could hear. “I know about Kindermord.”
Even in the tent’s dim light I saw him turn red, then white. He stepped away from me without a word.
Jennifer put one hand gingerly on the coffin. The manacle chain scraped lightly against the wood. “Is Elliot in there?” she asked me, her voice shaking. “Is that what you told Marc? Please, I have to know.”
“Not unless we cut him off at the knees to make him fit,” I said. It was cruel, but I was out of patience.