Harric groaned inwardly. Just take this hunk of steel off my knees. I don’t care what it is, or why you think it’s special. But the priest kept smiling, and would probably make a pest of himself if Harric didn’t oblige him. He made a show of examining the blade and hammer butt, and after a few moments—more or less by accident—he noticed a slight wiggle to the blade.
“Blade’s loose,” Harric said. He drew his finger down a seam between the stem of the blade and the block of the hammer. “I think the stem of the blade sits in a socket in the hammer butt.”
Kogan gave a solemn nod. “Knew you’d see it.” But he still didn’t go away. If anything, the expectation in his eyes only grew, and he leaned closer, adding the scents of old sweat and mildewed smothercoat to the stink of burned resin.
Breathing through his mouth, Harric found a rusty bump on the hammer block. “I think this is a…pin,” he said, picking at it. “It is. And here’s another. The stem of the blade is held in a socket by pins.”
“You’re a good Arkendian lad, and this proves it. Now take her apart and answer your own question.”
“My own question?”
“You asked it yourself: what is it?”
Harric stifled a sigh and wiggled first one and then the other pin until they came free. Kogan pulled on the blade until a short stem slid free of the socket. He set the blade aside, then rotated the hammer butt on Harric’s lap, so Harric could examine the empty socket.
The stink of resin rose strongest from the socket, and as Kogan illuminated its depths, Harric caught the glint of brass workings inside. In spite of himself, his curiosity flickered to life. “The socket is meant for a resin charge,” he said. “I can see flint wheels in there—three, it looks like—but the flints have fallen off their slots.”
“I seen it.” The priest’s eyes had become intent. “Could you replace them lost bits? Fix her, maybe?”
Harric nodded. “Sure. Captain Gren gave me plenty of resin and flints.”
Kogan’s chin rose, and his chest seemed to swell. “Best do that later today, when we have more time.” Retrieving the hammer butt on its haft, he slid the stem of the blade back into the socket. Then he pinched the pins between enormous fingers and lovingly returned them to their places.
“Well?” Kogan said, glancing up.
“It’s…a Phyros axe?”
Kogan nodded. “You seen that walking stack of sticks round here?”
Harric stared as his brain tried to put “sticks” together with axe-heads and resin sockets in a way that made sense. “What…what?” he finally said.
“That shambling witch toy.” Kogan glared about as if he expected to spy Mudruffle lurking in the ferns. “Caris told me he’s back.”
Harric suppressed a roll of the eyes. If the priest wanted to be mysterious about his axe, Harric couldn’t care less. But he was in no mood for games. “He’s at Caris’s camp. With the horses.”
“When I see him, I aim to keep my hands to myself, for Will’s sake. Will and I is getting along so well, I don’t want to go and spoil it by making a hash of the unholy stick puppet, but…” He grimaced. “I’d take it as a kindness if you keep it away from me. Not sure what I’ll do if them spider fingers get to touching at me.”
“I can do that.”
A tension in Kogan’s huge shoulders relaxed, and he laid a hand on Harric’s shoulder. “You’re a Maker, Harric.”
“What is this Maker?” Brolli smiled as he crested the hillock and entered the camp. “Maker of what?”
Kogan’s open expression turned to suspicion, but Brolli met his gaze with such polite curiosity that the priest grudgingly replied. “I says Harric is a Maker, not a Breaker. Means he helps those as needs it, even if it’s a danger to him.”
“Ah. Then it is a good phrase for a good thing.” Brolli set his satchel beside Harric and studied Harric’s bandaged head.
“Ran into a sharp branch,” Harric said. “Not too bad.” In fact, the wound hadn’t hurt at all since he woke, so he’d almost forgotten about it. Fink had made him promise before he slept to wash it and bind it first, and apparently that had done some good.
“I will look,” said Brolli.
“That’s not necessary—” Harric began, but Brolli waved him off and began unwrapping the bandage.
“I miss my flock something terrible,” said Kogan, his eyes on the unravelling bandage, but focused on nothing. “I think about them when it’s quiet like this, and I wonder how Widda Larkin is making out without me.” His small eyes flicked to Brolli. “You seen Bannus’s fires in the valley…you reckon I’ll ever see her again, or you reckon he’ll catch us up?”
Brolli glanced to Kogan, then went back to his task. “I think the campfire is not for a large company. Squires and baggage, maybe, as Sir Bannus follows the false trail.”
Kogan sighed through his nose. “My flock needs me. When I run off to help you and Will, I had half their coin with me, and they’ll need it to pay passage on a boat up the Giant’s Gap.”
“Then you are a Maker, Father.” Brolli held all the bandages in his hands now, but he turned his eyes upon the priest and gave him a small bow. “We need you, and you help us, though it give you much danger.”
A small smile softened Kogan’s gaze. “Reckon so.”
“And Willard is a Maker,” said Brolli, as he turned his attention to Harric’s wound, “for he drinks the Blood to protect us, though it harms him.”
As Brolli studied Harric’s scalp, gingerly parting the blood-crusted hair, Harric winced in anticipation and watched the Kwendi’s expression. The expected pain did not come, and after some time, Brolli frowned and set about parting the hair less gently. Finally, he shook his head and handed Harric the bandages in such a way that he turned his back to Father Kogan. “There is no wound here,” he whispered. “I think Mudruffle saw it before me.”
Harric put a hand to the spot and found the wound gone without trace. Not even a scar.
“You wound needs no bandages, Harric,” Brolli said, loud enough for Kogan to hear. “You may wish to bury them, since we are allowed no fire.”
Harric wrapped the bandages in a tight wad as Brolli sat to write in his journal. He knew he should feel gratitude, but some pathetic and self-pitying part of him regretted that now the wound would never worsen and finish what Caris started.
Hoofbeats sounded from the north. From somewhere below their camp, Mudruffle honked, “It is Sir Willard and Caris.”
The mention of her name sent a spike of dread through Harric. He took up a position behind the log circle, which would allow him a quick retreat if she went for her sword again. Or, for that matter, if Willard did, for if she’d told the old knight about Harric’s pact with the Unseen, he’d probably do it himself.
Cobs. So be it. If they seized him, there’d be no point in resisting.
His heart jumped when he saw her riding toward the hillock, and when her eyes found his, it felt like javelins speared him through the eyes. In her iron gaze he saw no trace of remorse, no trace of apology, only intensity and judgment. When she finally pulled her gaze away, he felt as though he’d been dropped from a great height onto the hillock.
Limbs shaking, he sat back on the log.
Gods take it, I’m actually afraid of her.
A new idea came to his mind, and he looked down to her again as she rode around the skirt of the hill. Could Willard be feeding her the Blood? He saw no blue in her cheeks. But if she had taken the Blood, that would explain why she had attacked him that night—it would mean it wasn’t actually her that attacked him, but the Blood rage. A tiny butterfly of hope fluttered up from the shreds of his heart.
Molly churned up the hill and into the camp, but Caris did not follow. She dismounted in the horse camp below and tied Rag with the other horses.
As soon as Willard hobbled Molly at the edge of their campsite, he strode toward them in the log circle. His eyes did not pause on Harric, which Harric took as a sign that Caris had no
t revealed his secret. Then again, Willard had changed so much with the Blood in the last days that Harric doubted he could accurately gauge him any longer. If it weren’t for the tusk-like mustachio and the still-bald head—now stubbly—Harric might not have recognized him as the same man. Any soft lines and extra chins had vanished. His cheeks and jaw had gone angular, and cords of muscle now rippled in his neck.
Kogan evidently noticed this too, for he laughed and said, “Gods leave you, Will, you look like your own son!”
Brolli had stopped scribbling in his journal, and his mouth hung open as stared up at Willard.
“If you aren’t ready to ride, pack up now,” Willard announced. “We ride as soon as the girl is armed. Boy, hurry down and help her bring her armor up.”
Harric’s stomach shriveled. “I…don’t know if that’s a good idea, sir.”
“She’s given me her word she won’t…object. So get off your lazy arse and help.”
Harric rose, but tremors and nerves made him move like a badly strung marionette. “I’ll help her,” he said, but his voice failed him. He feigned a cough, trying to mask it, and at that moment, Caris crested the hillock with her sack of armor slung over her back.
“Think I can’t carry my own armor?” she said. The look she gave Harric was so frosty it would shatter tree trunks, but her sword stayed in it scabbard. She dropped her armor beside the log and stood still as a mountain, eyes boring into Harric. “I don’t regret a thing about last night, Harric. So don’t you dare try to flatter me or pity me.” Her eyes swept to Willard’s and held the knight’s gaze without flinching. “I am not stupid, and I’m not afraid. And I’m not the Caris you think you know. I’m not even the Caris I thought I knew.”
Every pair of eyes in camp was on her.
Somewhere in the darkness, tiny birds chirped as if to say, Here I am, where are you?
Willard broke the tension with a snort. “About goddam time.” He motioned to the spot beside him. “Take a seat, girl. I believe I remember how to lace a breastplate and tie a point.”
“I’m not a girl,” Caris said, making no move to sit. “Haven’t been for some time.”
Violet sparked in Willard’s eyes. “Take a seat, Caris. We cannot ride till you’re armed.”
Caris turned her iron gaze around the fire, and when it found Harric, it took all his will to hold it. After what seemed like an eternity, she sat and indicated her gear bag. “Oiled the leather yesterday,” she said as she picked up the quilted gambeson. “Shouldn’t need any today.” When she pulled the garment down over her head, the tension drained from the scene like wine from a punctured skin.
Willard plucked a plated vambrace from the bag and held it to Caris’s left bicep so he could buckle it to the breastplate. “Listen close,” he said, shifting abruptly to conversation. “We have more than one enemy. In addition to Bannus, we have the fire on the west ridge. Right now, the fire is driven north along the ridge by a south wind. But if the wind changes, the flames could jump the cliff into our valley and cross our path, and we’d be trapped between fire and Sir Bannus. To be safe, we need to get ahead of that fire. And if we don’t make good time today, it won’t matter what the fire does, because Bannus will be upon us.”
Kogan nodded, his face uncharacteristically serious. “This is the time I been waiting for, Will. I got something for you.”
Willard looked up from buckling. “Better make it quick.”
Kogan lifted his axe from behind the log and laid it on his knees to peel back the oilcloth.
Willard scowled. “What in the name of Bannus’s reeking socks is that?”
Kogan’s voice dropped in reverence. “This axe—this very axe in the hands of Father Yonas—slew the Phyros stallion called Worsic.”
“What man could lift it?” Brolli said. “This Yonas is a giant, yes?”
“He was a wandering priest, like Kogan,” Willard said. “So, yes, a giant. And I thank Yonas for his deed, for Worsic and Sir Tighe were monsters. Beyond that, why should this hunk of awkward iron matter to me?”
“Because you’re big enough to wield her now, Will,” Kogan said. “And though you’re still not a match for Bannus, this axe could make the difference.”
Harric stiffened, expecting Willard to explode again at Kogan’s statement.
But Willard merely ground his teeth and glared. When he finished Caris’s left vambrace, he moved to her right side to attach the other. “It’s a ridiculous axe. Looks like an ingot with a blade tacked on.”
“She’s special,” Kogan said, as if it were an article of faith.
“Belle is also special. I’ll use her.”
“Does it have a name?” said Caris.
Kogan nodded. “Reckon her name’s Worsic. Ain’t that how it works? If she don’t have a name yet, first kill names her.”
“Worsic was a Phyros stallion,” said Caris, “not a her.”
“Can’t be helped. Weapon’s always a she.”
Caris raised an eyebrow. Then she drew her sword, which made Harric’s breath hitch. He didn’t flee, and if he paled or flinched, she paid no attention. Instead, she angled the blade so the priest could see the crude inscription she’d etched there with a shoeing nail. Mona. She read the name aloud.
Kogan’s beard split in a crack-toothed grin. “Well, I’m a stuffed pizzle. Already a name! Who was Mona?”
“A lady,” Caris said. She dropped her eyes to the blade. “But I didn’t kill her. I avenged her.”
Willard practically rolled his eyes as he set to lacing the back of one of Caris’s thigh cuisses, and it stirred Harric’s anger, in spite of everything. Surely Willard would understand the reference to Mona Dionis, the horse-touched maiden who had hanged herself in the early years of Chasia’s court. He’d been in court then, and any blockhead could guess the significance her name would hold for Caris.
“Powerful name,” Harric said, keeping his attention fixed on the axe-head.
“Name yours yet, Harric?” said Kogan.
“Yes,” said Harric. “Sheath-seeker.”
The priest let out a big “har!” and Brolli grinned. Willard curled a lip as if to say, Always the knave.
“The axe is special,” Harric said, simply to cross Willard. “If you stuff a resin charge inside and then hit something with it, the charge explodes and shoves the axe blade deeper into your target. Probably right through it, judging by the size of charge she could hold.”
Glowering, Willard finished the vambrace. “Let me see that.”
Kogan smuggled Harric a wink as he removed the blade and handed the haft and hollow hammer butt to Willard.
The knight peered into the socket through a haze of ragleaf smoke. “This some kind of tooler gimmick?”
“The Arkendian alternative to magic, I think.” Brolli grinned. “This fascinates.”
Harric leaned in and indicated the brass flint wheels inside with a slender finger. “See there, and there. The flints have fallen off the slots beside the wheels, but I can replace them. When you hit something with the axe, the stem of the blade slides back in the socket and turns these flint wheels, which spark and ignite the resin and set of the charge. I’ll get it working.”
“If we wanted it working,” said Willard. “God-touched thing could blow any second.”
“No, that’s what the pins are for,” said Harric. “They prevent the blade from moving until you hit something hard enough to shear the pins away.”
Willard’s eyes narrowed at Harric. “How the Black Moon do you know that?”
Harric held his gaze with the strength of hollow indifference. “The toolers in Gallows Ferry made something like it to drive pilings at the landing. But any Northie could figure this out. Toolery’s a pastime.”
Willard snorted and turned his attentions back to Caris’s armor. “It’s a suicide axe. Recoil from the charge would send the blade forward and rip your arms off backward.”
Kogan’s face remained serious. “May come a time when we’
d trade both arms for a crack at Bannus. I know I would.” He stopped to reassemble the axe, then swaddled it in oilcloth and stood. “Best fix her tonight, Harric.”
“Soon as we have time,” Harric replied.
Kogan watched Willard for several long moments. “I’ll keep her for now, Will. When Bannus sees you, he won’t worry about you taking a chop at Gygon, because he’ll see you don’t have the power to cut an armored Phyros neck. But with Worsic here…” He patted the axe like it was a talisman. “She got the fire of righteousness, Will. Get her fixed and she’ll chop a boulder, and Bannus won’t never see it coming.”
Willard’s cheeks had turned purple during the speech, but aside from more forceful attentions to the points of Caris’s armor, he controlled his anger. It wasn’t until Kogan had returned the axe to the rest of his gear beside Geraldine that Willard threw up his hands and let the plates of Caris’s cuisse hang loose from the breastplate. “My fingers are too big for this. Boy, lace her up, or we’ll be here all day.”
“Sir—” Caris began, cheeks darkening.
“Drop your foibles, both of you,” Willard snapped. “He’s not kissing you, girl, and he’s the only one with fingers small enough to do it right. Do it now.”
Willard stalked back to Molly with a look that dared anyone to object.
A glance at Caris confirmed to Harric that her jaw muscles bulged and her face had darkened with fury. He looked down, and the hole in his chest gave a terrific throb. Great. Her thigh armor. Good decision, sir. If the knight wasn’t trying to get him killed, he was doing a good impersonation. But when he risked another glance at Caris’s eyes, she gave a curt nod.
Kneeling behind her, he set to lacing the plates tightly to the back of her thighs as quickly as he could, making it his careful study not to nudge her buttocks.
Brolli looked up from his journal as if he noticed no unusual tension. “Lady Caris, how does one kill an immortal?”
“You don’t,” Caris said.
“Cut off their heads,” said Kogan, from across the camp.
“We must cut off Sir Bannus’s head?” said Brolli, brows climbing his forehead.
The Jack of Ruin Page 35