Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  “We get Idgen Marte and Torvul up. And Renard.” Allystaire paused, taking in a big lungful of cold-tinged air. “And any of the Ravens who are fresh.”

  “We gettin’ the village up? They aren’t ready t’hold a spear when it matters, but just havin’ folk up and about, havin’ men carryin’ spears around might give bandits a second thought.”

  “No. Not in strength, at any rate. As you said, most are not ready. And I do not want panic getting in our way.”

  They quickly covered the few paces to the other tent. Allystaire rapped his fist lightly against the front pole and shook the tent slightly. Wake up, Idgen Marte, he thought, closing his eyes and concentrating on her presence. He could feel her, knew she was sleeping, just a few feet away, knew that she stirred. Wake up. We may have enemies among us.

  She came awake instantly and he heard movement inside her tent. Quickly, she appeared, wearing the same new, nearly black leathers she’d worn earlier that evening. She slipped a twisted leather band around her head to hold her unbound hair back from her face, and buckled her sword belt on as she joined them. “Where?”

  “I will explain once Torvul joins us,” Allystaire replied, already walking to the large boxy shape of the wagon. He lifted his fist to pound on the side, then lowered it, closed his eyes, and reached out. Torvul?

  He felt the dwarf sleeping within, and Gideon, but tried to share his thoughts with only the former. Wake. We may have enemies among us.

  Allystaire knew he’d failed to wake only the dwarf when Gideon’s voice was the first to answer him. Enemies?

  He sighed, lowered his head. Both of you, get out here.

  Through the thick walls of the wagon, they could hear the deep, sonorous Dwarfish cursing.

  “Where’s Renard?” Allystaire asked Idgen Marte.

  Idgen Marte replied through a yawn. “Leah has trouble some nights, dreams of the slavers. I can Calm her, but she found that sharing a roof with Mol means the dreams do not trouble her at all.”

  “And it means that Renard is in the same room as Mol,” Allystaire replied, nodding in satisfaction. “Damn. I should have thought of that earlier. We should be watching her while Fortune’s priests are here.”

  “The Goddess thought of it for you,” Idgen Marte said. “And I don’t think Cerisia is foolish enough, after she was shown up tonight, to challenge Mol. Nor do I think she’d harm a child.”

  Before Allystaire could argue with any part of Idgen Marte’s reply, Torvul and Gideon came clattering out of the wagon. The dwarf wore his hooked jerkin with its many pouches. He had his crossbow in one hand, and a quiver of bolts on his belt, balanced by his metal-shod cudgel. Gideon carried only his staff and wore the plain homespun wool he’d been given upon their arrival.

  “Boy, you best have a damn good reason for waking a dwarf up before he’s good and ready,” Torvul rumbled, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “I spoke with Keegan tonight. He told me there is a group of armed men, a dozen or more, camped in the woods nearby. Been there for two days.”

  “Why’d he say nothing sooner?” Torvul stopped rubbing and spat into the grass, then reached into a pouch and pulled forth a dull metal flask. He unscrewed the cap with the thumb of the hand that held it, had a slug, and offered it to the rest.

  Idgen Marte reached for the flask while Allystaire said, “He had his reasons. Now more to the point. Ivar tells me one of her men, her best tracker, followed one of the priestess’s guards in that same direction and has not reported back.”

  “I don’t like that for a coincidence,” Torvul growled. Gideon frowned but said nothing. Idgen Marte handed Allystaire the flask and he had a sip. It burned, but he felt a jolt of energy ripple through him as the spicy liquid hit his stomach. He offered the flask back to Torvul, but the dwarf said, “We all ought t’have a nip. Give us focus, for a couple turns, anyway. Don’t want to overdo it.” With a nod, Allystaire handed it to Ivar, who tilted her head calmly back and had a long swallow.

  “We need to prepare for this without causing a panic,” Allystaire replied. “Ivar, show Idgen Marte where your man went, then get the rest of the Ravens ready for a fight. I am going to go speak to Renard. I would like Gideon to come with me. Torvul, if you need time to get anything ready, take it, but watch the Archioness’s camp—if anyone comes or goes, I want to know of it.”

  Allystaire turned his head to face them all in turn as he spoke. They all nodded, and as he turned to leave, they dispersed in his wake. Gideon followed, taking a few quick steps in order to catch up to him.

  “Why not simply go directly to Cerisia and compel the truth of her?” Gideon asked his question suddenly as he took rapid steps to keep pace with Allystaire’s much longer stride.

  Allystaire instantly thought of Cerisia’s words just a few turns earlier. She can’t have been lying then, could she? He cleared his throat, and said, “I have reason to believe she would not know of this. And if I go straight amongst her and her guards, well, then things are almost certain to end in bloodshed. I will avoid that if I can.”

  “And if they have killed Ivar’s man?”

  “Then they will have made their choice,” Allystaire replied.

  They covered the distance to the Inn quickly, with the sun rising at their backs. Between the slight added warmth of the sunlight and whatever had been in Torvul’s potion, Allystaire felt energy building his limbs, the anticipation of a fight stirring him. A small part of him, he knew, was even looking forward to the possibility. It was as though some forge deep inside him was being stoked, readied for purposeful, meaningful work.

  Inside the Inn and up the stairs to the room where he’d carried Mol the night before, Allystaire found the door opening as soon as he raised his gloved fist to knock. The girl stood there in her robe, yawning into her fist.

  She looked up at him with, he thought, a mingling of joy and sadness in her eyes. “I can’t sleep past the sunrise anymore,” she said as another yawn set her jaw moving. “Too much o’the world starts t’speak t’me.” She studied his face for a moment and said, “Looks like they want t’make a fight of it, doesn’t it?”

  “I am afraid it does. I need Renard.”

  The girl nodded and pushed the door half closed. There was the murmur of hushed voices, and then the door swung open again, with Renard leaning on it in a nightshirt.

  “Armed men camping outside the village,” Allystaire said. “There may be a fight in the offing. I thought that if any of the local men were ready for it, you would know. If they are—even one or two, I want them armed and turned out as soon as you can manage it.”

  As Allystaire spoke, he watched the exhaustion of sleep melt out of Renard, saw his back straighten, his eyes focus, and his expression harden. His feet shuffled as though he meant to click his boot heels, and he said, “Half a turn or less. Where do we rally?”

  “The Temple. Yet do not do it openly.” Allystaire turned to leave, then quickly spun back. “You are a sergeant born, Renard, and surely as much a gift of the Mother as anything else.”

  With that, he and Gideon clattered down the stairs and back out into the morning. By the time they reached the Temple field, Idgen Marte awaited them by Torvul’s wagon, breathing heavily.

  “They’ve got Ivar’s man,” she told them. “There’s more than a dozen of them but their camp was broken up, made it hard t’count. For all that they looked like brigands they felt like soldiers,” she added. “He’d been done up pretty badly. Broken leg. No chance of sneaking in and carrying him off.”

  Allystaire felt that furnace inside him begin to pump and roar as if a bellows were working it. He pulled his gloves tighter to his hands and said, “Any sign of the temple guardsman among them?”

  “I never made their faces,” Idgen Marte replied. “What next?”

  “We take the initiative. Allystaire stretched his neck
till he heard a click, and then balled his hands into fists and looked towards Cerisia’s pavilion. “Gideon, go tell Torvul to cover us. Stay with him.” He paused. “Please.”

  With that, he set off with determined strides, shield bouncing against his back. He knew, without looking, without asking, that Idgen Marte was just a few paces behind, matching his stride, watching his back.

  Allystaire made straight for the huge white and gold silk pavilion. One of the guards emerged from his own tent, armored, sword belt around his waist, helmet clutched in his hands. The guardsman, one of the younger men, headed straight to intercept, holding out his leather-over-steel helm in both hands to block Allystaire’s path.

  “You cannot see the Archioness armed, nor can you enter without—”

  As the man began to give him this command, Allystaire reached out and snatched the helmet from his surprised hands, feeling the weight and the solidity of it and registering the shock on the man’s face. Gripping it by the chainmail havelock that descended from the back, he gave it a short swing right into the man’s face, noting with satisfaction the crunch of the guard’s nose and the spray of blood that resulted.

  The guard went to one knee, moaning in pain, his eyes closed, and Allystaire threw the helmet down beside him. “Give me an order of where I may or may not go armed again, and I will break your jaw as well as your nose,” he growled.

  He set off again, feeling Idgen Marte’s unease in the way her stride quickened to catch up with him, and her hand went to his arm.

  He shook it off, and bellowed as he neared the tent, “Cerisia! You and your men will answer to me. Come forward before I come in for you.”

  Think, man, think! Allystaire heard Idgen Marte’s voice inside his head and turned to see her face livid, teeth clenched. “You’ve just told them all we’re onto them,” she murmured, hand falling to her sword.

  If there is fighting to be done I would rather it start now, and not wait till they have numbers.

  Even now, though, the other guardsman, four in all, had closed in around them. Two of them appeared from within the pavilion inside an antechamber in the front, Allystaire reasoned, and the other two from within the tents surrounding it. The first pair were armored and had their swords half drawn, while the remaining pair wore only the clothes they’d slept in, but stopped to grab spears from their neat piles of weaponry.

  Allystaire’s hand fell to his hammer and Idgen Marte’s sword was gleaming in the early sunlight faster than anyone could have followed.

  Guardsman’s swords cleared their sheaths. Allystaire swung his shield to his left arm, flexing his fist in the straps, and slid his hammer out of its ring.

  “I should have barred you entry with your arms. Surrender them now and you may keep your lives,” Allystaire said as he and Idgen Marte squared off with one guardsman each. He felt a tiny tickle, nearly an itch, grow between his shoulder blades. There’s a man with a spear standing behind me, he thought, and I’m not wearing armor.

  Allystaire heard Torvul’s voice. I’ve got him. The one on Idgen Marte will never hit her.

  Allystaire felt some of his tension ease. The furnace deep within him roared. He tightened his fist around the haft of his hammer. He felt his arm start to lift saw it all begin to unfold; he would simply lunge shield-forward to turn the blade, try to unbalance his man, and then come over the top with the hammer.

  But then Cerisia’s voice, strong and resonant, sounded out over the morning. “Fortune’s servants, in Her name put up your swords. Stay this madness!”

  The guardsmen lowered their weapons, but didn’t drop or sheathe them. Cerisia’s face, red from sleep but, Allystaire thought, still alluring, turned to him. “Allystaire—what is this? Why do you come to my tent with weapons drawn?”

  Allystaire lowered his arm, but only halfway, keeping his elbow bent, ready to bring the hammer into play. “Tell me why there are a dozen or more armed men outside Thornhurst, coordinating with your guards.”

  Cerisia’s eyes widened and her cheeks drew taut across the bones of her face. “I know nothing of this,” she whispered hoarsely. “Nothing. I swear it upon Fortune’s name.” Her eyes focused on Allystaire’s, and she held her slim arm out to him. “Compel me if you must.”

  The priestess didn’t wait for Allystaire to respond, but turned to the nearest guardsman, the one Allystaire had identified as their captain, her voice cracking like a whip.

  “Iolantes,” she snapped. “What does he mean? Explain to me now!”

  The man was clearly taken aback. With one eye on Allystaire, he lowered his sword till the point nearly touched the ground, and stammered as he searched for a response.

  “But, Archioness, it was your own command.”

  Allystaire felt his arm rising, but whatever violence he’d been about to unleash was cut short as Cerisia’s acolytes emerged from the pavilion behind her. Clad in white and gold, both were armed with small crossbows that fit neatly into one hand, loaded and cocked with bolts only a few inches long.

  “No, Iolantes,” the woman said. “You only thought it was Cerisia’s command. One voice sounds much like another behind a mask in the dark. Still,” the woman added, smiling, “you’ll be rewarded for your service.”

  “What is the meaning of this treachery, Joscelyn?” Though a crossbow was pointed directly at her from only a span or so away, Cerisia was far more angry than she was frightened. She turned, placing her back to Allystaire and Idgen Marte. One of her hands, half hidden behind her hip, began forming some sort of sign, her fingers flexing and bending in ways he couldn’t follow.

  The male acolyte had his crossbow leveled at Allystaire, a fact which did not escape him. He caught the man’s eyes, noted the hesitation in them, and smiled.

  At the same time, Joscelyn laughed and answered Cerisia’s question with the air of someone deigning to accept a task that was beneath them. “Your primacy in Fortune’s service is over. She favors the quick to act, the decisive—not those who would mewl about peace and forbearance in the face of a threat to the church’s very existence,” Joscelyn said. She was younger than Cerisia, with finer, thinner features that should have been delicately beautiful, but now were twisted into a kind of lean, angry hunger.

  “These fools will be presented as gifts to our allies at the Temple of Braech,” Joscelyn went on, “while the peasants shall be suitably chastised. Most lives will be spared, provided they give up their heresy.”

  “You incomparable fool,” Cerisia hissed, her face white with rage. “You have no idea what you would set in motion. You have no notion of what a Declaration of Anathemata means, or what it will lead to!”

  How long am I letting this farce proceed? Idgen Marte’s voice sounded, dry and angry, in Allystaire’s head.

  Joscelyn spat. “What do I care for the lives of a few peasants bowing down for a renegade lord?”

  “You were a born a peasant, Joscelyn,” Cerisia said.

  “And look how I have risen.” The woman raised her crossbow, smiled. “Look how much farther I have to climb.”

  Now, Allystaire thought.

  There was a frenzy of sudden movement. Joscelyn was pulling the trigger on her crossbow, but even as she did, Idgen Marte had blurred right in front of her and brought the flat of her blade down hard across her wrist. There was a sharp crack as a bone in Joscelyn’s arm snapped, and the bow discharged straight into the ground.

  Meanwhile, the other acolyte tried to loose his bolt just a hair after Joscelyn. Some surge of power welled up from Cerisia’s hidden, signing hand, and the string of his crossbow snapped. Allystaire stepped around Cerisia and, with a tight, controlled swing of his left arm, bashed his shield straight into the man, lowering his shoulder and stepping into the blow.

  The acolyte was driven off his feet and back into the tent, crashing into a folding stand and sending the metal pitcher and basin atop it clatt
ering. Though it must’ve hurt, he rolled to his feet, kicked the pitcher aside, and came up with his knife.

  Well, he’s got stones. I’ll give him that, Allystaire thought, even as he raised his hammer and crouched behind his shield, yelling, “Think on it, lad. A knife versus my shield and hammer?”

  “Drop them and make it a fair fight,” he called, not entirely convincingly.

  Allystaire sighed and stepped deeper into the pavilion, watching the acolyte’s shifting feet. He feinted to Allystaire’s right, attempting to get around the shield, but Allystaire simply bulled straight at him again. The knife scored into the heavy oak panels of the shield, barely. Allystaire was once more able, with brute force, to knock the man onto his back.

  He landed heavily, and Allystaire gave him no time to recover. He stomped on the acolyte’s wrist, pinning his knife to the ground, and began to let that heel take more of his weight, even as the acolyte yelled in pain.

  Casually, Allystaire leaned over him and let the head of his hammer drop so that it rested, lightly, on his adversary’s chest.

  “Boy, to make this a fair fight, you would need a wall of spears and a siege tower. I have killed dozens, scores, mayhap even hundreds of foolish lads like you. I am not keen to add to that list.” He leaned closer, scowling, and gently prodded with the head of his hammer to emphasize every word. “Do not doubt that I will if you force me to.” He let that sink in, watching the man’s face intently. He had an olive cast to his skin, though the underlying flesh now was paler with fear and pain. His brown eyes held Allystaire’s blue for a moment, a moment longer, then closed in defeat.

  Allystaire nodded. “Toss the knife away as best you can. Up and outside, and if you try to run, my dwarfish friend with the crossbow will stick you like a hunted doe.” The acolyte followed him out, cradling his right arm.

  Outside, Joscelyn was on the ground, holding her arm in pain and silently weeping. Cerisia’s guards had gathered around her and Idgen Marte stood warily by, sword at her side.