Enna Spades, Beau Stabler, Hammerfiss, and the Bloodwood were standing near the fallen Laijon statue. Several other Knights of the Blue Sword were milling about the periphery, but the chapel’s gloom seemed to swallow them up.
“I take it you were none too impressed with Ser Rufuc’s handling of the prisoners,” Stabler said, bowing before Aeros.
Aeros’ eyes strayed to the rectangular altar in the center of the church. The altar stone had been removed, revealing a hole and ladder.
Spades bowed too. “Poor Rufuc.” Her voice drooled false sentiment. “But he was an idiot, a foulmouthed ass-licker. He deserved a knife in the neck. Wish I could have done it myself.” To Spades, those of Gul Kana needed to suffer agony at the hands of the brave and righteous warriors of Raijael. And if anyone in the Sør Sevier army didn’t see it that way too, well, then, they could be excused from the fighting as politely as Aeros had just excused Rufuc.
“Rufuc was near to earning holdings near Morgandy.” Stabler, on the other hand, acted appalled at war’s brutality from time to time. “His family will be disappointed to learn of their loss.”
“And what of our loss?” Aeros demanded. “This army grows lazy. What news of those who’ve escaped?”
“Your best trackers already search the corridors under the chapel,” Stabler said. “We will soon find where they’ve gone.”
Aeros’ eyes narrowed as two armed men entered the church. Gault could tell his lord was in a black mood and would not go gentle with anyone. A deep-rooted tension was in the air. Aeros’ eyes cut through the gloom toward the entrance of the chapel.
“Hound Guard from the watch,” Stabler said.
The two Hound Guards approached Aeros. They both dropped to one knee before him and, without so much as an ounce of enthusiasm, introduced themselves as Karlos and Alvin. The torchlight was a ruddy glow in the eyes of the two newcomers.
Karlos, the bigger of the two, stood spoke first. “We’ve news, my lord,” he said, eyes nervously traveling back toward the broken doors of the chapel, past the barely visible lump of Rufuc Bradulf outside on the roadway and beyond. The wet sounds of two knights sawing the head from the mole-faced girl’s body could be heard. Karlos’ heavy-jowled face took on a sunken look. He nervously folded his arms over his protruding belly. The man’s bulk accentuated his overly shined armor, which shimmered in the light of Gault’s torch.
Aeros looked expectantly at Karlos. The younger one, Alvin, stood and shuffled nervously. He sported a frightened smile of grimy-looking teeth. “They’re all dead,” he muttered.
“Who’s all dead?” Aeros’ gaze turned to Alvin.
“The rest of our regiment. The two dozen with us patrolling the town for stragglers and hiding villagers—all killed.”
“Killed how?”
“A man,” Alvin blurted, “a dangerous man, dangerous like we ain’t never seen before. He had a big black sword. Then there was blood all over. Everywhere. Now, I seen plenty of folk die on the battlefield, mind you; I’m used to the blood and whatnot. But there was something brutal in this man’s killings. More deadly and evil than even a Bloodwood, I reckon.”
“Killed as silent as a Bloodwood too,” Karlos added with a worried smile. “I didn’t even know what was happenin’ till most of our contingent were dead and bleedin’ in the dirt.”
“It was most certainly Ser Roderic Raybourne they saw.” The Bloodwood turned to Aeros. “King Torrence’s brother, Shawcroft. I have dealt with him before. Trained as a Dayknight, he is a deadly foe, even for a Bloodwood.”
“He looked right at me.” Alvin’s voice dwindled to a whisper. “He was injured. Arrow shot maybe . . . yet still deadly, like the Spider says. But he vanished, the man did, quick as he come.”
“And why did you not rouse the camp immediately,” Aeros said, “before he could steal away with my prisoners?”
“We stayed hid in a root cellar.” Alvin looked embarrassed.
“Idiots,” Hammerfiss piped up. “You should’ve spoken to this man. You likely coulda knocked him dead with your bloody rotten breath, Karlos. Your information is practically useless.”
Both Alvin and Karlos hung their heads, Karlos’ sunken eyes traveling to the lump of Rufuc Bradulf still lying in the roadway outside.
Hammerfiss continued. “Your armor is obnoxiously bright, Karlos. Is it your ability to find root cellars to hide in that keeps it so shiny?”
“A tin of pig fat,” Karlos said. “I polish my breastplate with it daily.”
“Utterly astonishing,” Hammerfiss laughed. “Ser Roderic could not have helped but notice that massive hunk of brilliance strapped about your belly. Like the Eastern Star, it illuminates your comings and goings. You’d be less visible if you set your hair afire. Had Ser Roderic killed you and then left your fat body shining away on the road, it would have surely given his location away. I imagine he was happy that you found that root cellar.”
“Indeed, as you say, Ser.” Karlos bowed.
“Remove that glare from our eyes,” Hammerfiss continued. “Never let me see you wearing it again. And furthermore, use that tin of pig fat to grease down your anus. Now that, I’m sure, Alvin will appreciate.”
Humiliation scrawled on his mug, Karlos shuffled off. Alvin bowed to Aeros before following on the heels of his shiny companion.
“How is it such daft fools made it into this army?” Spades muttered. “For it seems they cannot even manage the very simplest parts of soldiering.”
Aeros Raijael had remained silent throughout the exchange, sheer unbridled annoyance alive in his eyes.
Mancellor Allen brushed by Karlos and Alvin on his way into the chapel. He was a tall fellow not much older than twenty, with braided rows of dirt-colored hair and Wyn Darrè fighting tattoos under his eyes. He had been captured during the initial siege of Ikaboa, but during the course of his captivity he had seen the light of righteousness and was now a true believer in Raijael and a warrior fighting on the side of Sør Sevier. He walked up with confidence, armor clanking, boots clicking, helm lodged in the crook of his arm. He was a newly made Knight of the Blue Sword.
Mancellor acknowledged the presence of the Angel Prince with a formal bow. “I have news for Stabler, if it pleases my lord.” Aeros nodded and Mancellor directed his comment to Stabler. “The main tunnel leads to a pond not half a mile away in the foothills of the mountains. The escapees have headed into the hills. They will likely seek shelter in the mountains higher up. I didn’t have many men with me, but I did send two Rowdies to follow them. The escapees have left a well-marked trail.”
“Good.” Stabler turned to Aeros. “They will be tracked down soon, my lord.”
“It is not good enough.” Aeros aimed his gaze at Spades. “That Ser Roderic risked so much to rescue these few children tells me that the boy I seek is with them. I requested each prisoner be accounted for by name.”
“That task was fulfilled,” Spades said, familiar copper coin dancing between her fingers in her hand held by her side.
Gault could tell she was lying. The Illuminations said, Through the light of the eyes, one can glimpse the soul. Spades’ eyes now sparked nervously, coin moving more rapidly between her fingers.
“Not fulfilled to my satisfaction, it seems.” Aeros’ ice-colored eyes, as always, remained void of light and feeling.
“There was one who did not name himself.” Worry was etched on Spades’ face, but also satisfaction. “An injured fellow who seemed delirious. I gave charge to Stabler to interrogate him further.” She looked at Stabler coldly.
It was clear from the glint in Stabler’s iron-gray eye that he resented Spades’ accusation. He smiled, but there was a hard animosity in it.
“You’ve always boasted of being Sør Sevier’s best tracker.” Aeros’ eyes were fixed on Stabler too. “Take fifty knights and the Bloodwood, join up with the two Rowdies. Follow the escapees for a time. See where they go. See what they carry. But bring them back alive.”
Stabler bent his knee to his lord and bowed low. “I will bring them back alive.”
“Do so. You know the price for failure.”
Standing outside the chapel, Gault breathed in the welcome fresh air. The remaining Hound Guards had stuck the mole-faced girl’s head on a stake, then planted the stake into the soft peat just off the hard-packed dirt roadway. A handful of squires were now strapping Rufuc Bradulf’s body to a litter bound for whatever pitiful gravesite they could find.
Again, Gault found himself drawn to the girl’s face and the blemish there. He resisted the urge to turn away. He felt he was an interloper witnessing her sweetly silent and detached reverie. Her sightless eyes were glued upon the burnt hulk of the church. She had no choice. She could not avert her eyes from the disgrace that had once been her place of sanctuary. A head without a body was always disconcerting to Gault. The drying orb with the dripping neck had once been a talking, breathing, eating entity. Now it just floated in the darkness, silhouetted against pale light of the dawn.
The gray chill of the morning coiled chainlike around Gault.
What if it were the blond girl, Ava Shay’s, head on the pike? How would I feel then? He felt the sting of bile working its way up his throat. It would remind me of my own daughter back home is what it would do. Sudden sweat was beading on his bald head, and the first hint of a fever sent a shudder through him. His breath came in jerks and his pulse raced. But he refused to be sick. Of all the horrors I’ve seen through the years, why is this one severed head on a pole affecting me like this? His heart ached for the mole-faced girl. What was her story? Had she a boyfriend? Did he die during the siege? Was she heartbroken at his death? What about her family? Were they dead too?
He closed his eyes and gained control of his breathing. Over the years he had spent too much time protecting himself from his own compassion—he had to. Warriors were trained not to feel. Sympathy in battle made one hesitate. Hesitation made one die. Never wish ill on your enemies, the Illuminations read. Reap it.
In the end, Gault knew, it was better to see a mole-faced girl’s head on a stick than your own.
* * *
On the eventide of their escape from the slave pits, the Five Warrior Angels gathered in a grove, their hearts open to glory. Angels descended in their midst, bearing five stones and five mighty gifts: a red stone and a sword for the Princess, a white stone and a pearl-colored shield for the Thief, a black stone and a black crossbow for the Assassin, a green stone and a war helm for the Gladiator, and lastly, a blue stone and a battle-ax for the King of Slaves.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NAIL
4TH DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
GALLOWS HAVEN, GUL KANA
The Dead Goat Trail rose up the mountain in a steep twining path just beyond two towering boulders. Above the two boulders, the tops of the trees were cast in a golden sheen. The sky was mottled with fire-rimmed clouds. Still, the air was chilled, and morning dew lay heavy on the ground.
Nail, Stefan, Gisela, and Liz Hen stood between the boulders, looking down at Shawcroft. The pale-faced man lay against the stone with a blood-soaked shirt wrapped around his upper leg. Blood flowed freely from the dog bite. His leather breeches were sopping red. For the group of escapees, it had been a panicked flight from the tunnels under the chapel to this point at the foot of the Dead Goat Trail. Enemy knights had been swarming the landscape, searching.
It wasn’t until now that Nail really took notice of the black longsword on Shawcroft’s lap and the bow and quiver full of arrows there too. It was similar to Baron Bruk’s sword. There was that same black opal on the sword’s pommel. Its naked blade ran thick with congealed blood. Shawcroft also carried his leather satchel, its strap thrown over his shoulder. He winced visibly as he unslung the bag. “Of all things, do not lose this satchel, Nail. You must make sure it reaches the Swithen Wells Trail Abbey and Bishop Godwyn.”
Shawcroft stood slowly, struggling mightily to do so, sword and bow sliding from his lap to the ground. He draped the satchel’s leather strap over Nail’s head and tugged on it, making sure it was secure, its flap buckled securely on the side. The Vallè-designed scrollwork inlays stamped into the leather had always fascinated Nail.
Shawcroft picked up his sword. Nail found he could not look away from the blood along its blade. “Aye,” Shawcroft said, following Nail’s eyes. “Been a long time since I’ve felt Dayknight steel in my hands. My old sword. I kept it hidden in the eaves of the cabin all these years. A fine-made blade. I thought I’d lost it when you took it from me on that battlefield. I’d thought I’d lost you. But a Dayknight will always be able to find those things most important to him.”
Gingerly, Shawcroft picked up the longbow and quiver of arrows, holding them out to Stefan. “Also from the eaves of the cabin. Now yours, Stefan, to make up for the lost Amadon Silver Guard bow. It’s a shame you won such a fine weapon at the Mourning Moon Feast, only to lose it in your first battle.”
Stefan took the bow. It was elegantly made.
“A Dayknight bow,” Shawcroft said. “Made of ash and witch hazel. The most accurate bow ever crafted by the hand of man. Mighty powerful, too.”
Stefan strapped the quiver of arrows over his shoulder and tested the bow’s grip and tightness. “It’s a good bow.”
Shawcroft’s eyes roamed the forest around them. “I’ve done a poor job covering our path. I’ve lost much blood. I won’t be able to make it up that trail with this leg. I’m but a liability now. Dog bit. Arrow shot. Dying.”
Nail’s mind grew numb. But the truth was evident. Blood pooled under his master. Baron Bruk had taught his conscripts that an edged weapon thrust into to a man’s throat or heart was a rapid death, and a strike to an armpit or inner thigh would bleed a man out quickly. And judging from Shawcroft’s pallid face, Nail could now see that the bite of a dog could accomplish the same thing as a well-honed blade. The dog bite had accomplished more than the crossbow bolt from the red-haired witch woman who plied the slaver’s brand. His heart grew faint.
“It was good I found Dokie Liddle and Zane Neville wandering the hillside near the cabin after the Sør Sevier invasion,” Shawcroft said, eyes still on Nail. “Even as injured as they are, they helped load food and supplies onto Bedford Boy and Lilly. I sent them up the trail in the middle of the night with the ponies. I bade them wait for us at the top of the trail in the meadow near the old ruins. I hope they listened and did not become spooked. Sometimes one must place trust in others, as I did in them. Both are brave boys, I suspect. Though Zane is grievous injured—”
“What’s happened to my brother?” Liz Hen blurted. “Aeros asked about you and Nail,” she continued rapidly. “Why? What’s going on?”
“Never mind that.” Shawcroft cocked his head to the side as if listening to the wind. Nail’s eyes darted into the forest. The leaves of the trees were thick with dew. He could feel the blood rush to his head. His vision wavered and something black swooped past his eyes. He tried focusing on the two boulders flanking the path beyond Shawcroft. He’d heard tell a man could be touched by the wraiths after a serious head injury. And he had taken a wicked blow during the battle, which had addled him to the point where he now imagined his skull was cracked. Could the wraiths squeeze in?
He found Liz Hen was glaring at him. He turned to Shawcroft and asked, “Did they really sack Gallows Haven because of me, because of us?”
“Shhhh.” Shawcroft waved the question away. “From the sound of heavy hooves, I figure the knights bearing down on us number around fifty, all on horseback, palfreys from the sound of it, lightly armored for fast travel. Dogs travel with them. We may have but ten minutes before they get here.” He pointed to the east, up the steep trail. Almost a hundred feet above, clinging to the craggy slope, was a tall, swooping pine. Shawcroft turned his hardened gaze to Stefan. “By the time you reach that tree, the knights should be upon me
. Use the bow; kill as many as you can.”
“I can’t,” Stefan mumbled, eyes darting between Gisela and Shawcroft.
“You have the skill,” Shawcroft said.
“It’s not my skill with a bow that worries me.” A fearful look fell over Stefan like a shroud. “It’s just”—he paused—“I’ve never killed a man before.”
Shawcroft, his face a chunk of stone, pulled Stefan close and looked him square in the eye. “The power to kill is the only power that matters now, boy.” He poked a thick finger roughly at the rusty iron armor over Stefan’s stomach. “Despite what armor a man wears, always aim for his belly. His gut is vulnerable, naught but skin and water and precious little else. One arrow to the stomach and a man’s done. Got it? I heard tell you were good at killing merfolk. This is no different.”
Stefan gulped and nodded at the same time, his eyes roaming back up toward the pine clinging to the ragged slope.
“That trail is steep, narrow, difficult for horse and rider,” Shawcroft said. “They may have to dismount and guide their horses if they wish to follow you. I can only hold them at bay so long. Once they are past me, they will most assuredly follow you.”
Shawcroft’s piercing gaze was now focused on Nail. “You know these mountains. You know each vale and standing-stone. You’ve panned every stream and hiked every trail, ofttimes alone. You can see the others to safety. They are each one your friends.”
Nail was at once bolstered and confused by his master’s praise. Shawcroft looked at him squarely, unwaveringly. “You are harder, tougher, smarter than most men. It is how I raised you. You saved Zane from the sharks. There is nothing more brave than to save a life.” Then his face dropped. “But you can also take life, son. And there can be bravery found in that, too. If any lag behind, you’ll have to leave them in the mountains. Remember Radish Biter. Though they hide it, Dokie and Zane are sorely wounded. I’m afraid Zane won’t make it far. You must reach Bishop Godwyn above all else.”
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