The characters and events portrayed in this book, while based on history, are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2014 Roberto Calas
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.
Published by Westmarch Publishing
Other Works by Roberto Calas
The Scourge:
THE SCOURGE (Book 1)
THE SCOURGE: NOSTRUM (Book2)
Published by 47North
WAGES OF SIN
A Scourge short story
Published by StoryFront
The Beast of Maug Maurai:
THE CULLING (Book 1)
FEEDING THE GODS (Book2)
STARS AND GRAVES (Coming Soon)
KINGDOM OF GLASS
A Kindle Worlds Novella
Learn more about Roberto Calas on robertocalas.com!
To our children, Cesar, Lucia, Drew and Charlotte.
And to the children of Sandy Hook Elementary School.
Acknowledgments
This book would not have been possible without the help of my readers, many of whom contributed directly to the expense of its production. Most notable among those readers is Jay Bidwell, who stepped in when Sir Edward was faltering. I would also like to thank Chris Pourteau, Mary Wikswo and Joseph Finley for their generous support of Edward’s campaign.
I should, of course, offer my gratitude to my beta readers: Jeff Fuller, Robert Duperre, Patie Polczyk, Kathy King, Randy L. Johnson, and Susan Johnson Crowe. This book would be a shadow of what it is without their help.
I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my lovely fiancée, Annabelle Page, who is my editor, art director, project manager and counselor. She is my Elizabeth, so it is only fitting that I used her image as Sir Edward’s Elizabeth on the cover of this book.
I would like to thank the Knights of Calas for your hard work and brilliant suggestions. Together we will conquer the world.
Lastly, I would like to thank my parents, Nick and Rina, whose eternal support keeps me from the ditches of life.
Table of Contents
Other Works by Roberto Calas
Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
EPISODE 1
Episode 1 Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
EPISODE 2
Episode 2 Maps
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
EPISODE 3
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
EPISODE 4
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
EPISODE 5
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
EPISODE 6
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
EPISODE 7
Episode 7 Map
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
EPISODE 8
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Historical Note: Episode 1
Historical Note: Episode 2
Historical Note: Episode 3
Historical Note: Episode 4
Historical Note: Episode 5
Historical Note: Episode 6
Historical Note: Episode 7
Historical Note: Episode 8
About the Author
EPISODE 1
Episode 1 Map
Chapter 1
Men will follow anyone. I have watched fools lead battalions and cowards command armies. I have met lecherous bishops who guide flocks upon the paths of morality, and madmen who rule entire kingdoms. And I have learned in my days upon this earth that it is not the wisest or bravest or even the most sensible who lead; it is the loudest.
And Sir Gerald of Thunresleam is loud enough to wake the dead.
His shouts echo through the sparse forest. “No!” he screams. “In a line! Stay in a line!”
Sir Tristan and I pause at an ivy-draped alder to recover. I unsling the leather sack from my shoulder, and Tristan does the same. Each breath I take sears my lungs, echoes in my helm. I am too old to be running in armor. Hounds howl, and the deep thud of hoofbeats sound behind us. The rain applauds on the leaves above.
“Tell . . . tell me that lovely story again, Edward,” Sir Tristan pants as he speaks, one hand on his thigh, the other holding a crossbow against his shoulder. “You had a . . . a cannon pointed at Gerald . . . a flame . . . inches from the touchhole. I . . . I forget the next part. Tell me again what you did?”
I take great gulps of air and grunt at Tristan. He knows what happened next; I lowered the cannon and let Gerald escape. I have run from Sir Gerald from the time his master, Sir John of Muckinge, died in battle. Sir John was torn apart by the mindless victims of this new plague that has rotted England. I suppose Sir John’s death is my fault—I led the plaguers to the battlefield where he died—but neither apologies nor denials will sate Sir Gerald’s lunatic thirst for revenge. The madman has tried to kill me more times than I care to recall. And when I had him in my power, I let him go. I thought it my finest act as a human. But I think now it was my worst.
Sir Gerald does not seem to appreciate my act of mercy. Tristan and I left St. Benet’s Abbey two days after capturing it, and we caught sight of our old enemy after less than three miles of traveling. Ten horsemen and two dozen footmen appeared on the horizon, every one of them sworn to Sir Gerald.
Men will follow anyone.
Father Aubrey, a priest back home, once told me that men are like wolves. He said we hunt in packs so we can slaughter more lambs, and the man with the loudest howl leads us all. I smiled and asked if women were the lambs in his metaphor. A peculiar look came over him as he shook his head. “No,” he replied. “A woman is the hunger that burns in the belly of the wolf. The hunger that makes him slaughter the lamb.”
Father Aubrey is a strange man.
My woman, Elizabeth, lies plagued in the cathedral of St. Edmund’s Bury, and my belly rages with hunger for her. I have slaughtered an countless number of innocent lambs while trying to get her back, and I fear there will be more butchery before my journey is done.
And I will not give Sir Gerald another chance—he will be the first on that butcher’s block.
A stocky man in ring mail and a flat-topped nasal helm stumbles through shrubs and draws up only a few feet away. His eyes grow wide when he sees us. “They’re here!” He draws his sword. “Sir Gerald, I have them! They’re—”
&
nbsp; Tristan’s dagger catches the man in the throat and the shout becomes a gurgle. I sigh.
Sir Gerald will have to be the second on the butcher’s block.
The man’s body relaxes and Tristan lets it fall to the sodden earth. I notice a red ribbon tied around the soldier’s arm. His lady’s favor. A sign of the hunger that burned in this man’s stomach.
I catch a strong scent of lavender—an odor I have detected several times on our journey. But I do not have time to question it. The wailing of hounds grows louder from the east. Horsemen bob through the trees, and footmen crack branches with their footfalls as they shuffle through dead leaves.
Tristan cleans the blade of his dagger on the wide, red ribbon. He squints at the oncoming men and tries to smile. “I have an overwhelming urge to visit the west side of this forest. Now, really.”
I take a last look at the dead man, sling my shoulder sack, and lurch westward through the forest. The sack is heavy with supplies: a three-foot-long hand cannon; food for our journey; a large jar full of dragon’s blood; and a jar of miraculous healing salve called Malta fungus.
I shove at the grasping branches with my shield. Cold water from the wet leaves sprays my cheeks through the perforations in my helm. We cannot outrun our pursuers forever. My hope was to lose them in this forest, but there are too many, and the dogs have our scent. I wonder how Sir Gerald will kill us. On our last meeting, he threatened to skin us like rabbits and piss on our pulp. He may be mad, but he is creative in his madness.
I glance back at Tristan and think of all the times I have put his life in danger. Death’s skeletal fingers have scratched our shoulders too many times to count, but today I can feel his bony hand on my throat. Tristan sees me looking and blows a kiss, then picks up his pace so he is directly behind me.
Men will follow anyone.
Chapter 2
The forest dies out slowly, coughing clumps of hawthorn and acacia, until there are only the empty chalk plains of Norfolk. A goshawk cries out and circles above.
Tristan shakes a fist at the bird. “Insolent bastard.” He sights the creature with his crossbow even though it is far out of range. “We’re not dead yet!”
But the goshawk knows better. A horn sounds behind us. Shouts rise again in the distance.
The soldier we killed gained us time. The other men must have paused at the body because, for a time, Sir Gerald’s cries grew more frantic. “Leave it! Just leave him there!” It was a long time before we heard the crash of their pursuit again. I almost believed we would escape.
But now there is nothing but open ground ahead. If we try to run across the plains we will stand out like ticks on a pig. And if we hide in the forest, the dogs will root us out like truffles.
I tug at edge of my breastplate, adjusting the sharp weight on my shoulders. Sweat makes my fingers slip across the metal. Tristan pants beside me, hunched with hands on his legs.
A hind leaps from the hawthorn a dozen paces away, no doubt driven from the forest by the distant cacophony of Sir Gerald and his men. She stops when she sees us, her ears taut as sails in a gust.
“You rode a cow to safety once, didn’t you?” Tristan’s voice is tinny in his great helm. The hind hunches low then springs away. I track her flight.
“Hinds are Saint Giles’s animals,” I say.
“Not even the patron saint of the insane can stomach Sir Gerald,” Tristan replies.
“He’s my saint, Tristan,” I say. “He’s my saint.”
East Anglia is so flat you can watch your horse run away for three days, but I cannot watch the hind for three days. I cannot watch her for even three heartbeats because Sir Gerald is behind us. We have gained ground on our enemies, but they have not given up.
Something moves in the distance, far past the running doe. A horse pulling a two-wheeled cart northward along a worn path in the grass. The hind runs directly toward the wagon, but if Saint Giles wants me to follow, he is a fool. The cart is nearly a mile away and there is nothing but flat chalkland between us and it. We would be defenseless on the field, and the even ground would allow Gerald’s horsemen to hit us at a full charge.
I spot something else in the distance.
An old mill lies to the south, half hidden by a line of overgrown hedges. The tall structure sits on a narrow channel of water, about three hundred paces away. A scattering of thatched cottages rot on the opposite bank.
I glance back toward the forest. The men are still a long way from us, but they are relentless in their pursuit. I look to the mill. Tristan and I have killed oceans of men. It is a trade we know well, and the crumbling building will give us a place to work our craft. Elizabeth’s cure hangs on a cord around my neck. She is the hunger in my belly, and I will slaughter every one of Gerald’s lambs if they get in my way.
I run south, calling back to Tristan. “The mill!”
My armor clatters with each stride. I hear the shudder of Tristan’s plates behind me as we sprint toward the waterway. The ceaseless Norfolk wind makes flutes of our helmets and tugs at my shield. My breath comes in great ragged bursts.
The mill is not crumbling as badly as I had imagined. In fact, it is not crumbling at all. Rain beads upon fresh linseed oil on the walls. Rose bushes grow in neat lines along a footpath leading to the doorway. Someone is living in the house.
Something hisses through the air and strikes the bevor at my throat with enough force to make me gag. I stagger and crash heavily to the grass in a jangle of plates, gasping. Tristan dives to the ground beside me, skids on the wet grass, and covers us with my shield as I strip off the dented bevor and cough. The wooden shards of a broadhead arrow lie on the grass beside me.
A thin archer with a six-foot war bow stands twenty paces away, using the hedges for cover. Time has robbed the brown from his temples, but his arms do not tremble as he draws back the bowstring. Two quivers hang from his thick belt, one at either hip.
The blare of a horn trembles in the Norfolk wind. The archer glances toward the forest, then scowls at us and draws the bowstring to its full length. It is no broadhead nocked on the bowstring this time. The arrow bears a thin bodkin tip, meant for piercing plate armor. My shield is nearly useless against such a weapon. The horn blows again from behind us, louder, ever louder.
I gaze toward the Heavens for guidance.
The goshawk circles lower.
We could charge him; a middling bowman might only get one well-aimed arrow away before we closed the distance. But a good bowman could fire two or three shots in that time. I look at the man’s posture. At his broad shoulders and the steadiness of his gaze. I have no doubt that he is a good bowman.
Tristan points to the garden. “Lovely roses.”
No one speaks. The spinning mill wheel splashes in the channel. Rain tinks off my armor and beads on the archer’s bow. The horn sounds again. Gerald’s men have a bloody affection for that horn. If I live through this, I will never hunt a fox or boar again.
The archer glances again at the forest. Our pursuers will push through the hawthorn in moments. The fingers holding the bow twitch and I know the man is uncertain of what to do. Uncertainty is good. There is certainty behind us, and certainty nocked upon his bow. At this moment, Elizabeth’s life depends upon uncertainty.
I rise slowly and remove my great helm, hold my arms out to the sides. It takes all of my will to keep from looking back toward the forest. “Those men will kill us,” I say.
“And piss on our pulp,” Tristan adds.
The archer’s fingers twitch again. He flicks his gaze toward the forest and tenses suddenly. The first of our pursuers must have emerged from the forest.
I catch movement at the upper window of the millhouse. A woman stares down, her hand over her mouth, her shoulders hunched in terror.
I meet the archer’s gaze. “I have a wife,’ I say. “She is . . . ill. I just want to go to her. Please.”
Our land is plagued by flesh-eating corpses, and still men fight against men. If h
umanity is to survive this calamity, then we must show ourselves to be human. That is why I let Sir Gerald live when I could have killed him.
I raise my arms into the air and walk toward the archer. “This plague has left so few of us,” I say. “We are all brothers, now.”
Tristan jerks his head back toward the forest. “Except for the madman in the forest. He’s more like a distant cousin. Three or four times removed.”
I wave him silent, my eyes locked upon the archer’s, and take another step forward. “Please. Help me reach my wife.”
The archer looks back toward the woman in the window. His hands clench tightly around the bow, then he lets out a long breath and releases the tension on the bowstring. He gestures with his chin toward the channel. An old rowboat sits upon the water, downriver from the spinning waterwheel.
“He will kill you if he knows you helped us willingly.” The archer looks toward the gathering soldiers and licks at his lips. I touch the hilt of my sword. A tooth is embedded in the pommel, and that tooth is said to have come from the mouth of Saint Giles himself. I run a finger over the molar. In these times of madness, only the patron saint of madness will save us. I tap the hilt of the sword and nod toward the archer. “I’m going to pretend, do you understand?”
The archer half draws the bowstring again so I stretch my hands out to the sides. “I won’t harm you.”
He turns to look at the woman in the window again, then relaxes the bowstring again and nods.
I glance back. A cluster of men push out of the forest. Sir Gerald’s black destrier pushes past the acacia.
I draw the sword and point it at the archer. Tristan does the same and the man hustles toward the rowboat. I nod toward the sobbing woman in the upper window.
A great rectangle of hay bales has been stacked to shoulder height beside the mill house. There are no bales at the center of the stack. I peer in, and I forget about Sir Gerald.
Chapter 3
Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) Page 1