Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  Allystaire looked at the knot of beaten, wounded, yielded enemies, then at his people, the Goddess’s people. “It is not enough that we fight Delonduer. It will not be enough if we win. We have to be better men. Yes, ruthlessness might serve us here and now. We could have made quick work of the wounded and evened the numbers a bit more. But then the story goes out, after the fight: the Goddess thirsts for the blood of those who oppose Her, and Her paladin orders their throats cut. And then we have lost.”

  Allystaire leaned close to Chaddin and added, “And the more corpses upon the field—the more of those monstrosities Delondeur’s sorcerers can make.” He made sure that the Delondeur prisoners heard him, waited for them to grasp the implications, and began to walk away.

  “If you’re determined to be better men, why did you turn sorcerous fire upon us? Why is the captain of the Long Knives dead after yielding? Why do two of my father’s officers and one of his finest knights lie dead, assassinated by this Shadow of yours?”

  Allystaire turned on Landen, who had found her voice and pulled herself erect against the wall. Her face was pale, showing clear lines of pain, but her voice was strong and clear.

  “It was alchemical, in point of fact,” Torvul casually answered as he picked his steps from halfway across the room. “Calling what I do sorcerous is an insult, girl.”

  “A death in flames is not something I wish to offer anyone,” Allystaire said. “But I did not look for this fight. Everyone who has died here in the past few days has done so because of your father. That blood, along with so much more, is on his hands.”

  “And the yielded man?”

  “Attacked me, but not before he admitted to me he meant to do murder, to slit the throats of children in the night. I will not suffer a man like that to live.” Allystaire felt his anger rising. “I cannot suffer a man like that to live. If you believe for even a moment that I am what I say I am you will understand that. That so many of you draw breath, and walk, and move your limbs freely still ought to be all the proof you need that my Goddess is no delusion, that my Gifts are no lie.”

  Suddenly the door swung open, and Renard stuck his bearded head in. “Allystaire—we have found a wounded man we cannot move. You’ll need t’come to him, and quick.”

  Allystaire darted to his feet and was a step from the door before he stopped and said, “Landen. Chaddin. Both of you come with me.”

  * * *

  Gethmasanar moved with casual serenity around a folding table that had been erected outside his and Iriphet’s wagon, occasionally lifting one of the sharp tools laid upon it and examining it with a critical eye. Iriphet stood silent and unmoving some distance away. Periodically, some of their fearful swords-at-hire approached, carrying the dead or nearly dead. They had ceased questioning the necessity of delivering such material, though their own numbers grew fewer as the night passed.

  As if he plucked the thought from Gethmasnar’s head, Iriphet said, “Men cannot be relied upon except in short bursts. You know this.”

  “Of course,” Gethmasanar agreed as he thumbed the edge of a knife. “Like as not their bodies lie upon the field and will come to serve us anyway. What was it the Baron said? Dead men draw no pay.”

  Iriphet laughed, an odd and disturbing echoing noise. “Indeed.” There was a moment of silence interrupted only by the rustling of wind against bare tree limbs and Gethmasanar setting a barbed hook down upon the table.

  “Must you use such crude implements?”

  “No. I simply prefer it,” Gethmasanar answered. “I find there is less wastage when I use a knife.”

  “And you are certain you can perform the Rite of Blooming Blood? It is hardly commonplace.”

  “It is not so different from preparing Wights.”

  “As you say,” Iriphet said. “Our employer approaches.”

  Baron Delondeur wandered into the clearing, preceded a bit by a much smaller circle of light than had followed him for most of the night. He held a lantern in one hand, as did his companion. They stopped just beyond the tree line, with the younger man eyeing the sorcerers warily.

  “M’lord, what is—”

  Lionel cut him off quickly. “You wish to serve your Baron, yes? And help me locate my daughter?”

  “Of course, m’lord, but—”

  Iriphet waved a hand contemptuously, and the young knight’s mouth moved soundlessly as he was lifted from the ground by bands of luminous blue. Delondeur himself started slightly and retreated a step, but then calmed and watched as Sir Darrus Cartin floated gently through the air and settled out upon the sorcerer’s folding table.

  Gethmasanar came forward, and, with a beam of yellow light extending from one finger, began cutting the young man’s armor. It curled like wood under the hasp, falling away in long strips.

  Cartin struggled, such as he could. His eyes were wide, and soon the small clearing was rank with the stink of piss as his fear mastered him. Lionel watched at some remove.

  Iriphet waved the Baron to his side, and Lionel hesitated only momentarily before obeying.

  “There are parts of the Rite of Blooming Blood that you may find unpleasant, Lionel,” Iriphet began, his voice sounding even more alien than usual. “You will have to banish such thoughts from your head.”

  Gethmasanar picked up a knife. Strips of metal and gambeson lay curled upon the ground like shorn hair. Despite the sorcery that was gagging him, Cartin’s scream was audible as a kind of whine as Gethmasanar’s hand plunged down and began to slice.

  With his free hand, the sorcerer gestured, and a wide goblet made of some strange dark metal floated into the air next to him.

  “You must steel yourself and do as instructed, Baron,” Iriphet went on. “For it is only after this Rite that you will survive the construction of your new armor. Remember—in order to match the paladin’s strength, you must do as we say.”

  Lionel eyed the goblet that floated above the knight as he was butchered. He tried not to think about the dark substance flowing into it. He especially did not focus on the thrashing, mewling form on the table, pinned fast by glowing blue bands of twisting light.

  “Armor?” Delondeur asked the question absentmindedly, his voice faint and drawn.

  “Yes. It is not entirely unlike creating a Battle-Wight, you see.”

  * * *

  Allystaire didn’t give Landen or Chaddin time to pause or consider his demand to follow him. He simply went, hot on Renard’s heels, hoping they would follow a commanding voice without thinking on it.

  When he heard the tramp of feet on the frozen ground behind him, he knew that they had.

  It didn’t take him long to understand the nature of Renard’s urgent request, because the soldier’s steps took him straight out to the battlefield they’d recently held, to the scorched and blackened spot where Torvul’s potions had bloomed into fire.

  Idgen Marte knelt at the edge of it, next to a form that screamed so faintly that Allystaire thought the man’s lungs must have been damaged. A wordless, wet sound, it was a horror to the ear, but from more than fifteen feet away, no one could have heard it.

  Allystaire slid to his knees at the man’s side, offering his hand. How old he had been, or how he’d looked, was anyone’s guess. The chainmail he’d been wearing had scalded against his skin, and all along the left side of his body and his face, it was as if the metal had been grafted to him.

  The sense of pain that washed over Allystaire as he pushed his Gift into the man was so overwhelming that he nearly blacked out.

  Goddess, please hear me. I know that you are distant. I know that I have asked much of you, Allystaire quickly prayed as he tried to pour healing into the burned man. But this man is in pain because of me. I did this to him. I do not know if he is an evil man. I do not know if he is truly our enemy. Even if he were, I would not wish this upon him.

  Allystaire
built the compassion, the love that the Mother’s Gift offered to him, into a raging torrent, and tried to pour it forth into the Delondeur soldier. He found the resistance to it more than he could imagine.

  Please, my Lady. I am sorry. No matter his crimes, no man can deserve to die this way. Do not let this be done in your name.

  Unlike Jeorg the night before, the man he tried to heal now did not seem to remember his own name. There was only pain and loss and fear and Allystaire found himself muttering, “I am sorry, I am sorry,” audibly, pushing and pushing and pushing against the enormous wall of pain that threatened to engulf him.

  And then suddenly it broke and the man’s scream grew louder and more intense for a moment, and then the healing began to wash over him in earnest. The links of metal that had melted into his skin were pushed free as his flesh knit, and the screaming subsided till the man lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Two of Renard’s volunteers delicately picked him up, and began carrying him back to the Temple. Allystaire stood and turned towards Chaddin and Landen. “Do you still doubt me?”

  “I have seen sorcery before,” Landen muttered darkly.

  “Aye. Seen it kill and maim and plunder, no doubt. I know without thinking on it that the power the sorcerers wield—the sorcerers your father pays to do his bidding—can never heal.”

  “Why?” Chaddin’s arms were crossed over his mailed chest. “It still makes no sense to give so much aid to the enemy’s wounded.”

  “And is this man my enemy? Is he yours? What lured him here, Chaddin? What promises or lies? And I healed him because I am the man who nearly killed him, who made him suffer with fire.” Allystaire turned to Landen then, and said, “I will do what I must to protect the people I serve. But I will also do what I can for anyone who suffers. Could you claim any of that to be true of your father?”

  Allystaire didn’t give the Baron’s daughter a chance to answer. He followed the men bearing the newly healed Delondeur soldier, leaving Chaddin and Landen to exchange curious looks before rushing after him again.

  * * *

  Lionel Delondeur fell to one knee, simultaneously gasping for air and fighting to keep his gorge from rising. Surely some of the men heard the screams, he thought. Surely they will come looking.

  Wild-eyed, he looked up at Iriphet, who stood calmly and immovably above him, goblet in hand. “We are only just begun, Baron. Do not think of it in the crude terms that are causing your mind to reject it. Think of it thus: Sir Darrus Cartin’s life, the strength of his youth and manhood, are now given to you. They would have been anyway, over a lifetime of service. Now they are given to you to use in the coming days. Do you understand? In this, the man still serves you. You must have steel enough to accept that. Up.”

  There was no denying the snap of command in the sorcerer’s odd voice. “Yes,” the Baron spat, pushing himself to his feet. “His service, still,” he added weakly. His service ended with him a mewling, whimpering thing. Dressed out on a table like an animal taken on a hunt, with less dignity. The suddenness of his own thought surprised him. He pushed it away, straightened, and reached for the goblet. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, trying to put a bit of his flair back into the words.

  Next to him, Iriphet offered no reply except to hold out the goblet and its dark reeking contents.

  Chapter 39

  Stillbright

  Allystaire picked his way through the huddled shapes of all the folk crammed into the Temple. Most of them had been driven to sleep by their fear, and he could hear the regular soft rush of their breath, feel the warmth of it filling the air.

  He found Mol, seeming asleep, leaning against the Pillar of the Will, where Gideon’s body also lay. The two were surrounded by a mismatched bunch of the village’s surviving dogs. In particular, Mol curled up with her back against one grey-muzzled, shaggy coated herding dog. Her peaked ears swiveled as Allystaire approached, and she lifted her head, considering him.

  “He is a friend,” Mol muttered, and for a moment he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or the dog, but then the dog closed her eyes and lowered her head upon crossed forepaws.

  The girl uncurled herself, put her bare feet under her, and stood up. She pushed her hood back and gazed up at him. Though most of the lights in the Temple had gone out, the sky itself was beginning to brighten, and through the ring of windows Allystaire could make out the tracks of tears on her face.

  “Mol,” Allystaire whispered. “Do not despair.”

  “How could I not? I cannot hear Her, Allystaire. Not at all. Gideon is lost to us. And the day that breaks now brings the Longest Night with it. There is nothing more we can do.”

  “Yes, Mol, there is. I am not defeated. Nor are Idgen Marte or Torvul. We may not know what it is that we must do, but we are not done, and I will not give in to despair even if I am dragged before the sorcerers in chains. If is true that this will be our last day, then let us honor Her with how we live it.”

  “Pretty speech,” a nearby voice hissed. “Not gonna do us much good when we all die, is it?”

  Allystaire turned to face Ivar, her face painted with dirt and blood, leaning heavily on the haft of her spear.

  “What is it that you want, Ivar? To be released from your contract so you may try and flee? I never thought I would see the day.”

  “We’d make it fifty span out the door before those sorcerers would churn us up into pieces of those bone monsters. Freeze that for a game I want no part of. I’ll stay here and die for my weight because that’s who I am. What I want is for you to remember who you are, and give up on this holy knight nonsense and find your way out o’this.”

  “As much as you have seen these months, and still you doubt and deny me and call me a liar.”

  “Or a madman.”

  “Either way, Captain Ivar, I care not and will hear it no longer. I release you from your contract, along with any of your soldiers who choose to go. I believe my sister paid your commission for a year. For your service, our history, and your losses I will not ask for any of it to be returned. Begone.”

  Ivar’s face was stunned, her eyes wide dark circles in the weak pre-dawn light. “Dismissin’ us? How’re we t’get out?”

  “It will be turns yet before Delondeur will raise another attack, and I feel confident that the sorcerer’s abominations will not move against us in daylight. You have time to get over the wall. Be gone.”

  Allystaire raised a gauntleted fist and pointed towards the door. Ivar looked at him in disbelief, following the direction his finger pointed. Her gap-toothed mouth moved silently several times. Finally she gathered up her spear and stalked off.

  The herding dog Mol had reclined against lifted her head and let out a low, soft growl.

  “Shhh,” Mol said, and the animal went instantly quiet, but still looked intently at the mercenary’s retreating back. “That may have been a foolish thing, Allystaire,” she muttered as Ivar began waking up other black-mailed forms and speaking quietly but animatedly to them.

  “It is not their fight. It is an old bond of mine, and past time they were all broken. Let the rest of this be upon Her Ordained and our people.”

  “If you’re done widening the odds against us,” Idgen Marte’s voice came from behind him, “Torvul’d like to speak with you outside.” He could read the anger in the flat tone of her words, and said nothing as he turned to follow her after nodding to Mol. The girl sank back against her grey-muzzled companion, which curled protectively around her.

  Once they were outside, Idgen Marte rounded on him. “That was a damn stupid thing. They’re practically the only thing keeping the militia from breaking.”

  “And I did not want to spend the rest of the fight waiting for Ivar to sink her spear into my back. It was coming,” Allystaire shot back. “I could feel it.”

  “Cold, if you’re going to send anyone out, it ought to
be the women and children.”

  “They’d not go,” Torvul said. He knelt on the steps of the Temple, working by the light of his sturdy little lamp. A mortar and pestle, several clay jars, and a few crystal bottles lay scattered around him. “And even if they did, they’d never get far.”

  “Have we any cards left to play, Torvul?”

  “Need you even ask?” The dwarf picked up a clay jar and sniffed at its powdered contents. “I think I can do a Forbidding.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I can keep the creatures from entering the Temple. Not so hard, really, simple matter of seizing upon the energy generated by the faith within and the sense of community and belonging it brings with it. Then I channel it into a song and—”

  “Save the theory, dwarf,” Idgen Marte said wearily. “What does it mean?”

  “Precisely what I just said. I can seal this building. Cold, I think if I have the time I can funnel them right to ya. Means I’ll have to test my craft against the sorcerer’s will.” He paused then, and heaved a deep sigh. “I’d feel better about it if the boy were able to help.”

  “If you can deny them entry, then as long as we can fight them off, the folk inside are safe.”

  “From the Wights, yes,” Torvul pointed out. “I haven’t got a way to bar men. Only things with the taint of sorcery. There is, ah, one problem.”

  “Go on.”

  “Once I do it, no one can go in or out. So those inside the Temple are stuck, and those outside…”

  “Likewise. Fine. Prepare and do it. The three of us out here, everyone else in there.”