Firethorn

by Sarah Micklem

  He picked up his weapon again and joined the melee. Now three cataphracts set upon Galan at once while their armigers went to work driving Sire Rodela away from his master’s side. Sire Rodela rarely used the scorpion or the lance. He could afford only one tourney weapon (and that one borrowed from Galan, since the armiger had won two trophy swords but lost three), so he kept to the sword, being more skilled in its use. It told against him this time, as one of the armigers against him had a scorpion and harried him while staying well beyond his reach. Sire Rodela held his shield up against the drumming of their blades. Soon his sword wagged slower and slower, like the tail of a beaten dog. The armiger with the scorpion stayed to finish him and the other two joined the fight against Galan.

  Sire Galan had been singled out in other tourneys; it made sense to disable a strong fighter early if it could be done. There was no doubt that this time they intended to make him yield by main force rather than by driving him past the boundary. They crowded him on all sides. Semental lashed out with hooves and teeth, pivoted and struck again. Galan knocked an armiger half senseless; the man bounced like a sack of turnips as his horse took the opportunity to trot off the field.

  The riders urged their horses closer, until Semental no longer had room to turn. Galan had lost his shield. A cataphract jabbed at him with the sting of his scorpion while the others tried to unseat him by hooking his armor with their curved claws. Galan held his scorpion like a stave to parry with the shaft and strike with both ends. Perhaps he forgot, in the heat of the fight, that the shaft was of pine and couldn’t withstand a heavy blow. When it broke he kept the short end, with the blade. There was no time to draw his sword.

  I was watching Galan, only Galan, yet I missed the blow that found its way under his breastplate and severed the belt of his scaled kilt before slipping through the skin and muscle of his belly. I thought Galan had lost his balance when he leaned sideways in the saddle. I thought he’d right himself again. Then he slid. Then he toppled.

  I hadn’t seen any blood. Nevertheless I was on my feet and running down the hill pell-mell, cursing in both the High and the Low, and praying too. I ran because I hadn’t been afraid enough, given that the men of Ardor had reason to do him harm, and now I was too afraid. He’d fallen like a dead man.

  Galan was half hidden by the legs of the warhorses trampling all around him. Semental did not run; Galan had trained him to stand steady on the battlefield if he was unhorsed. The stallion’s head was down, as if he was blowing hard. An armiger dismounted and cut Galan’s banner from the pole and took the weapon from his grip. The Crux rode up, and Sire Alcoba followed with their armigers—why did they come so late?—and while they engaged Ardor’s men, Spiller and Rowney came running. The jacks picked Galan up, one at his head and one at his feet, and carried him hastily toward the enclosure on the field. His rump dragged along the ground and his head lolled.

  I had the sense to stop short of the smudge pots, for it would have been sacrilege for me to enter the field during a tourney. The priests of Rift who patrolled the boundary would have cut me down.

  The tourney went on and on. I waited for it to end, watching the jacks’ enclosure instead of the battle as a priest of Rift hurried there, followed by two more, and close on their heels came Divine Xyster, the Auspex of Crux who served as carnifex. They stayed hidden behind the reed fence with Sire Rodela and Spiller and Rowney, and all the while I didn’t know if Galan was dead or mortally wounded or merely scratched and dazed.

  One clan or another won and I didn’t care. Galan’s men bore him back to the camp as gently as they could on a stretcher made of two lances and a length of canvas. Sire Rodela, Divine Xyster, and I walked along beside. They’d taken off Galan’s helm. His face was pale. His eyes were half shuttered, showing more white than dark pupil. He kept his face turned toward me. He said, “The whoreson bastards have scratched me, haven’t they?” and nothing more. His breath came in gasps with frightening pauses, and his cheeks were streaked with sweat and runnels of tears. Sire Rodela had taken off his own padded linen shirt and stuffed it under Galan’s breastplate. The blood didn’t show on the red shirt, but it left a trail of spots behind us on the muddy road.

  They took Galan straightaway into the pavilion of the Auspices of Crux. When I tried to follow, one of the priests’ varlets stopped me with a shove, for fear I’d taint Galan’s wound with my touch. I wished I were his jack and not his sheath, because Spiller and Rowney were allowed to care for him. When one or the other came out of the tent to fetch something, I pestered them for news.

  Spiller said Sire Galan’s abdomen had been sliced from his right rib to a handsbreadth past his navel, on the left. He and Rowney agreed the cut had been made by the point of a scorpion, which had found its way between Galan’s cuirass and his kilt, punctured a hole in the mail and linen underarmor, and raked across his belly. Just the tip had gone through; the hook of the scorpion had caught on his breastplate and stopped the blade. Galan also had the mark of hooves on his thigh and forearm where a horse or two had trodden on him, and a bad bruise on his shoulder where he’d taken the first blow. No bones were broken. It was the belly wound that worried them.

  The wound could easily have been mortal. It was meant to be by the man who dealt it, the father of Maid Vulpeja, the same Sire Voltizo they’d talked about that morning. But Sire Galan did, after all, have luck with him. Divine Xyster said the blade had cut to his tripes but not laid them open. A little deeper and he’d have spilled his guts and that was death for sure. He might die anyway if the wound went bad, of course, but the carnifex had sacrificed a dove and read the entrails, and the omens, on the whole, were good. He would treat him. No healer will risk his good repute on a useless attempt to cure a doomed man.

  Spiller was not forthcoming about how the priest cared for Galan’s wound. He was brusque with me, as if he was far too busy to attend to my questions. Rowney, on the other hand, told me a few things. He said Divine Xyster used spiderwebs to stanch the flow of blood, which came from a chest full of small reddish spiders brought along for the purpose. The priest had only to reach in a stick and twirl it to bring out a handful of the stuff. Rowney was made to pick the spiders out carefully and put them back in the chest so they could go on spinning in the dark.

  Divine Xyster had put some sort of greasy salve on the wound. Rowney could tell me nothing of its ingredients except that it smelled like horse piss and contained verdigris. The priest had fetched a tarnished copper disk from a tall pot in the corner, and scraped the surface of the disk with a knife to produce a green powder that he mixed with the salve.

  He’d painted godsigns and charms onto strips of linen, using more verdigris bound with egg white as pigment, and covered the wound with as tidy and intricate a bandage as one could ever hope to see, according to Rowney. Last of all he’d fumigated the tent by burning sage, candlebark, and dried flowers of consolation—the latter tending to produce a dreamless sleep; I could smell that for myself.

  Rowney had said a lot, for a man who liked to be silent. I promised him a pigeon for his help, and some hen’s eggs if he’d bring me a bit of the salve. I put my faith in the priest’s lore of spiderwebs and verdigris, so different from anything I’d learned from the Dame. Both his lore and his prayers were bound to be more potent than my own. I was eager to know his secrets, as if in knowing I could have some share in Galan’s healing. In truth I was helpless, and it was hard to bear.

  I went to crouch between the Auspices’ tent and Sire Guasca’s, in the small and stinking hiding place I’d used earlier when I’d cast the bones. I leaned my head against the wall of the priests’ tent. I heard nothing from Galan, not even a moan, only Divine Xyster droning a chant. It was evening. It occurred to me to wonder why the others hadn’t come back from the tourney field. The camp was empty except for Sire Galan, the priest, his men, and me.

  It was more than a feat for a wooden blade to get past iron plate, a mail shirt, and padded underarmor to find flesh. I
t was impossible.

  After we left the field, the priests of Rift went circumspectly to the king. They had examined Sire Galan’s wound and garments and they accused the clan of Ardor of bringing real weapons to a tourney of courtesy. The clan’s weapons were seized, but only one, that of Sire Voltizo, proved to be of keen-edged steel, masked under silver gilt.

  It was an affront to the king, to the clan of Crux, and worse—to the god Rift. Though the king had forbidden mortal tourneys, warriors still brought their private quarrels to the tourneys of courtesy. But it was uncommonly rare to flaunt the rules of battle, and rarer still to be caught doing it. No one would have objected to the man killing Galan fairly, but even Sire Voltizo’s kin, who had gladly helped him humble an enemy on the tourney field, disappeared from his side when his base cheat was discovered. He wouldn’t say why he’d done it (though there were some who already knew), and he claimed no one had helped him do it; he was only sorry he hadn’t given Sire Galan mercy when he’d had the chance. Everyone understood this to mean giving him the point of his mercy dagger through a slit in his visor.

  The Auspices of Rift consulted the entrails of a bull. Rift, as expected, demanded blood for the desecration. The king and the First of Crux also asked for recompense, the one for breaking the king’s peace, the other for the craven assault on his cataphract, whether the injury proved mortal or not. The parties were long together under the king’s canopy. The Ardor no doubt pled for leniency and the many-mouthed crowd spread rumors, most absurd, some with the stink of truth. Such as that Sire Voltizo had offered up his daughter to Rift in his place, but was refused.

  It’s best not to dally when gods are offended. Sire Voltizo was given a choice: a warrior’s death or a quick one. To no one’s surprise, he chose to die like a warrior.

  It was agreed that Sire Voltizo would never have committed such an offense—for he was known to be reasonably sober minded and free of blasphemy—if offense had not been given to him. If he wished to keep the nature of the insult secret, that was his affair. But as Sire Galan had offended him, and in so doing caused him to offend Rift, Sire Galan must also pay forfeit: his best warhorse, Semental. Rift was known to appreciate an offering of fine horseflesh. Of the two condemned to die, everyone knew the horse was more gallant than the man. The stallion was to be given the same chance as the man—not a fighting chance, for there was no way to win—but a chance to die well.

  Galan knew nothing of this, for he was lying in the priests’ tent, pale, cold, and trembling at first, and later pale and sweating. I made barley water and took it to the tent, but the carnifex sent me away, saying brusquely that a man with a belly wound should—of course—take no food or any drink except a purge to empty his guts. “Of course,” I said, and went to sit, shamefaced, inside Galan’s tent, where I could watch the comings and goings. At least I was spared the company of Sire Rodela. He’d ridden back to the tourney field to tell the Crux of Galan’s condition.

  The execution was a fine spectacle, I heard that night when the crowds came back from the tourney field. Sire Rodela wouldn’t speak of it. Neither would Flykiller, who had trained Semental from colt to yearling to the age of three, when Sire Galan himself took him in hand. I heard it from Fleetfoot and Ev, who’d stood on the back of Sire Pava’s spare warhorse to see over the crowds.

  Some days at the Marchfield it was hard to tell nightfall from bad weather. This was one of those days. A brief rain squall hid the sunset. Crowds of drudges huddled on the hills. Those who’d missed the tournament had come running when they heard the news. They watched as a wall of men of the Blood surrounded the tourney field: priests with torches, cataphracts and armigers on horseback with weapons in hand. It was a somber sight in the gloom, but there was great joy afoot among the mud-folk at the prospect of an execution.

  Sire Voltizo had the choice of weapons; he picked the scorpion and sword. They gave him Semental to ride. Four priests of Rift were sent against him, but only one of the four rode out to take him on. They judged that would be enough. The priest wore no armor at all, not even a helmet, which the crowd took as an insult to Sire Voltizo.

  The vanished Sun gave just enough light for the sharp-eyed to see what was happening on the field. The chosen priest cantered toward Sire Voltizo. The condemned was overmatched from the first blow and parry. His seat was poor, he slewed in the saddle as Semental danced away, and when Semental felt his rider slipping, he helped him fall. He was not the sort of horse to be patient with a bad rider.

  In a moment Sire Voltizo was sprawling on the ground. In another moment the priest leaned over and dispatched him, driving the scorpion’s point into his armpit through mail and underarmor and ribs. He was commended for making such a forceful blow with only one hand (that being the sort of thing that brought renown to Rift’s priests). The priest had to dismount to pull the scorpion out, it was lodged so deep. As was proper, his hand never left the shaft of the weapon. Sire Voltizo expired with a jerk and an exhalation of blood, and so died quickly after all.

  If not for Semental, the crowd would have been sorely disappointed. The black stallion made a better show than Sire Voltizo. He’d been trained to stand by Galan, but the man at his feet was not his master. He ran. Ev could not say a word about it, for it cut him deep, so Fleetfoot told me how it was. Semental was penned on the field by the men surrounding it; no horse is fool enough to charge a wall of lances unless a man he trusts is on his back, whispering lies in his ear. As the last light faded from the sky, the priests chased him around the tourney field. He galloped back and forth, he dodged, and three times he neighed a challenge and turned on one of the men who harried him. He ran in and out of torchlight. He was a black horse, and in his green-dyed leather armor he nearly disappeared in the darkness. But they could hear him. The crowd around the field was that silent. They could hear his hoofbeats, the creak of leather and the jangle of metal trappings, and they heard him grow more and more winded until every breath rasped through his windpipe with a harsh grunt and a strange high-pitched whistle.

  It required one priest to dispose of Sire Voltizo; it took all four stinging Semental with their scorpions to ride him down. They had to change their mounts twice, for he wore out their horses. He endured thirteen wounds before the one that finished him.

  By the time the pyre was built and the sea wind had carried most of the smoke and ash of Sire Voltizo, Semental, and a heap of dry gorse west toward the mountains, everyone in the crowd knew the tale of Sire Galan and Sire Voltizo’s daughter. Some blamed Galan; more blamed the dead man, on two accounts: that he had displayed her too freely and guarded her too poorly; most blamed his daughter for the disgrace she had brought on her house and clan. It won her no pity that she was supposed to be dying of love. The sooner the better, they said.

  The Crux came back to camp after most of his men, after the tale had been told and retold. He came galloping and stopped in a puddle, splashing mud. He dismounted and thrust his reins at Thrasher, his horsemaster. He strode to the priest’s tent and jerked the tent flap closed behind him.

  Inside the tent the priest held a lamp in his hand as he talked to the Crux, by Galan’s pallet. The flame spilled just enough light to stretch their shadows on the tent wall. I crept back to my hiding place to listen. I was not the only eavesdropper. The cataphracts around the hearth fire paused at their late supper.

  “How is he?” asked the Crux.

  I could see his shadow kneel. The priest brought the lamp down by Galan’s face.

  “Fortunate,” Divine Xyster said.

  “So he’ll live, then.”

  “For yet a while—though I never venture to predict how long any warrior will live. His bowels are still whole, and that is the best omen we could ask for in a belly wound.”

  “Sire Galan spoke up, saying, “I’m glad to hear it.” He startled me—yet how good it was to hear him speak, though his voice was small and strained with a pitiful bravado.

  The Crux stood up abruptly and walked a
way from him. The priest followed. They lowered their voices.

  “How long till he’s healed?” the Crux asked.

  Divine Xyster answered, “If the wound doesn’t fester, he’ll be ready to ride in less than a tennight. Ready to fight in two, I should guess. He mends fast, judging by his broken rib. If the wound turns noxious, of course …” He didn’t finish the thought. The Crux was already on his way out of the tent.

  The priest followed, saying Galan was in his right mind and could be spoken to. The Crux said, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow,” and he bit his words so hard they barely escaped his teeth.

  I peered from my hiding place behind the tent flap. The priest stayed in the doorway of the tent, looking at the sky. I couldn’t tell what signs he might be reading there, in the heavy clouds that covered the crescent Moon and stars. Perhaps he smelled omens in the chill sea wind. He stood there a long time, while the Crux took himself to his own tent and called for his supper.

  Around the fire, the cataphracts had fallen silent when the Crux passed them by. Every one of them had felt his anger from time to time. He used it well, nipping their heels to make them run where they should go. This was anger of a different order, and they feared the Crux all the more because he mastered his wrath and made it wait on the morrow, until he had considered what was owing and to whom. There was blame enough to go around. He’d learned of Sire Galan’s wager somehow. Not one of them had seen fit to warn him of it, though it touched on the honor of the clan.

  I heard Galan shift on his pallet and gasp and curse, as if the pain had caught him hard. I crawled back to sit as close to him as I could with the tent wall between us.