Sword of the Bright Lady

by M. C. Planck

  “It’s not much, Pater,” a boy said, with tears in his eyes. “But it is all we could find.”

  The boy handed him a bag with a broken pumpkin in it. Christopher was confused by the surrealism until he realized it was Kennet’s head.

  “I need orders, Pater,” said the older of his two remaining sergeants, almost apologetically.

  The kettles were boiling again.

  “We’ll need that,” the other sergeant said gently, hesitantly. He meant Kennet’s head.

  “No,” Christopher said.

  “We cannot leave them for the Dark to harvest,” the sergeant argued, but not forcefully.

  Christopher was suddenly alarmed, but the pile of heads next to the kettles contained no humans. They would not start without his permission.

  “Let me think.” He sat down on his little cot, which was, oddly enough, somehow still intact. He held the sack in his lap and thought furiously, forcing his mind to crank through logic. Royal stood over him again, stoically ignoring the pain of his torn flesh, the wounds not serious but ugly.

  The men waited, resting. They interrupted him only once to tell him the enemy had retreated to their own fort.

  He stood, went to the kettles.

  “How much do we have?”

  The sergeant looked at him, eyes shining. Furtively he handed Christopher a purple nugget the size of a cherry.

  “There is more to come, Pater, and also our own men.”

  “We’ll not harvest our men here. How long will it take you to finish this lot?”

  “An hour, Pater, no more.”

  “Then we leave within the hour,” Christopher said, and repeated it so everyone could hear. “We march within the hour. Listen up, and let me tell you what I know.

  “Cardinal Faren can revive a man eight days dead. The Vicars can hold a man so that the door does not shut on him, if they get him before those eight days. There are four Vicars within a day’s ride of Kingsrock, and also the Cardinal and the Saint. It will take us a day to get from Tyring to Kingsrock, a day to summon the Vicars, and three days to preserve all the dead.

  “That means we have three days to get from here to the border of the Kingdom.”

  He let that sink in.

  “That means we leave everything. The wagons, the cannons, the ammunition. Everything. We put the dead on horses and we walk. We walk thirty miles a day. Take your rifle and five rounds of ammunition. Fill your packs with grain for the horses. Take only a single loaf of bread for yourselves. You will not starve in three days, but the horses carry our brothers, and if they fail, then we will lose them forever.”

  They stared at him in silence, faces shredded between disbelief and hope.

  “You will bring back everyone,” the sergeant said, “even the unranked, the common, the worthless? You will spend tael like water for men of no account?”

  “Worthless? Who here is not worthy? What is a little tael, a little money, to the account of so many brave and true men? Tael I can replace, money I can summon from thin air, but men are a treasure beyond price.”

  Never again could he call them boys.

  They prevailed upon him to take the gold and silver, also, two large sacks of rings, pendants, and amulets.

  “It’s as good as tael, Pater, if not so light.”

  They took the water bottle, of course, and the light-stones, both necessary to the march. But the fortune in equipment and supplies that Christopher had dragged out here at such effort and expense they piled in a mound and burned.

  Wagons, tents, tools, paper, clothes, blankets, all up in flames. Their sole moment of levity was when his silly cot went into the fire. The cannons they packed with dynamite, dangled over the cliff, and shattered the barrels. The excess ammunition they burned in great sparkling gouts, tossing it into the fire, which consumed everything utterly.

  “What the hell is that?” Christopher asked as one of the sergeants clanked by him, carrying a bundle of swords.

  “Begging your pardon, Pater, but we cannot leave these behind.” They were the masterwork blades and Karl’s magic sword. “The men will be wanting them back.”

  The swords would be harder to replace than rifles, so there was no point in leaving them. But that reminded him of something, and he took off his chain-mail shirt. He tossed it onto the fire, where the heat would fuse the links into a useless mass of metal.

  And then they walked out of the camp, a long line of grim men, their faces gray, their bodies brown and flecked with white and red bandages.

  “Shall we burn the fort, Pater?” the sergeant asked.

  That’s what Nordland had wanted. In a moment of spite, Christopher answered, “No. We might want to use it again, and if the enemy occupies it, we can take it back easily enough.”

  What he wouldn’t give to fight a simple siege, where his cannons would make everything easy. Well, once he had cannons again, that is.

  Christopher made a silent promise, to all the gods of every world, that he would never again considering hiking “fun.” He stripped off his boots, massaged his swollen and aching feet. He was dizzy with hunger, exhaustion, and pain.

  And this was the first day.

  “We must be off again,” the sergeant said.

  Christopher stifled his immediate impulse to shoot the man and put his boots back on.

  He had wanted to be heroic and carry the swords, but he wasn’t up to it. A year of training had not erased a lifetime of easy living, nor had it made him young again. He struggled with his own sword and a backpack full of grain for Royal.

  Royal carried the swords, and three corpses as well, but that wasn’t as hard as it sounded, since one of them was the sack that held all that was left of Kennet. The other bodies they distributed amongst the draft and cavalry horses. Only the dead rode in this cavalcade.

  They walked. And walked. And walked. Without the wagons, already knowing the way, they made good time, but the specter of death haunted their footsteps. The frozen men were tied in the saddles like the horsemen of the apocalypse, and Karl’s face was a black beacon of doom. If a man paused or faltered, it took one look to make him walk again, sometimes crying from pain or loss, sometimes swearing in anger. But they walked.

  After nightfall the scouts called a halt at one of their old camping places. There was still firewood stacked up—a lifesaver, since no one thought to keep even a single ax. Huddled around the small fires, they slept in exhaustion. There were so many wounded, the unhurt felt shamed.

  In the morning, two men did not wake. Christopher shrugged.

  “Royal can bear more,” he said.

  The middle of the second day, they had to shoot one of the wounded horses. Some men redistributed its load while others butchered the horse and cooked it over a fire. At least half the men had possessed enough sense to keep their bayonets, despite Christopher’s extreme orders.

  “Pater,” a scout said, “should we not go due south?”

  “Do you know the way?” Christopher asked. “Will we find camps and firewood? Will we come out in the Duke’s land, to face his charges of mutiny?” The last argument seemed to be the most compelling.

  “I’m sorry, soldier, I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” He didn’t want them to stop making suggestions. But the man didn’t take offense, merely nodded acceptance of his authority.

  The meat was good, but then they had to walk some more. Christopher got off a second set of healing magic, but it didn’t go far.

  They walked from sunup to sundown again, finding relief only in the fact that their packs got lighter as the horses ate.

  Infection was starting to be a problem, and several men now needed help to keep moving. The cold was harsh, and the injured men should have been resting, not walking. Crawling over the gorges and ravines was painful and slow, and it chafed Christopher’s patience.

  At night they walked by the light of the magic stones, pushing on until the scouts said they had made their distance. The wounded fell in ragged heaps while
the others built fires and unloaded horses before collapsing beside them. Royal laid down, his burden temporarily set aside, and Christopher leaned against him, wrapping his coat as tight as he could. He had just closed his eyes, and a young man was waking him again. It was still dark.

  “Time to go, Pater.”

  They’d lost three more in the night.

  “I’m old,” Christopher said. He stood up, bones creaking, then sat down again and cleared his mind, seeking meditation. It cost him an hour every morning, but he could still walk faster than the wounded, and every man he touched was a man who would not die that day.

  The main army went on ahead. Christopher and his small escort caught up with them before noon.

  A young man was lying in the snow. Two others stood above him, exhausted, the cold stealing their breath in white clouds.

  “Get up, soldier,” Christopher said. “We’re almost home.”

  “I can’t, Pater, I’m sorry,” the young man whispered. His ankle was swollen and ugly, the flesh red and inflamed. Christopher was only a Pater. He could not heal infection.

  “Everybody’s feet hurt,” Christopher said. “Get up and walk.”

  The man did not respond but labored to breathe, his eyes closed.

  Christopher was too tired to think rationally, but he knew something had to be done. He took the rifle from the soldier standing next to him, leveled it at the prone man’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

  “Put him on a horse,” he said.

  In the echo of the blast, the men looked at him, shocked and stunned. But nobody else stopped walking.

  Later, they had to shoot another horse. Now all of the horses were doubled up with the dead.

  Walking south seemed easier, somehow. Their packs were empty and their goal was close.

  “Just keep walking,” the sergeant said, ranging up and down the line. “Keep walking.” The fingers on his left hand were black.

  The sun went down, and again the weather turned to their advantage. Heavy clouds hung low in the sky, and the cold abated to merely freezing instead of bitter. They stumbled by the light of their dozen torches, a parade of zombies.

  Walking into the hamlet of Tyring was like walking into Heaven. Once again Christopher fell on the icy steps of a chapel, seeking refuge.

  30.

  DEATH BY POLITICS

  The soldiers robbed the peasantry of their wagons and horses, banging on hovels, demanding blankets and food. Out of sheer pity the villagers opened their homes and their barns, bringing out cold beer and hot soup.

  Christopher shivered in front of the chapel fireplace. “We’ll pay for it all.”

  “You must rest,” the town priest said, a middle-aged woman with children of various ages running around her.

  “We cannot rest, my lady,” the sergeant said. “Give me a fast horse that I might reach Kingsrock by morning.”

  “You will not make it alive in your condition,” she said. “Here, Pater, write a letter, and I will send my own rider to the Cathedral.” But he could not operate something as complex as pen and ink right now, so he had to dictate it to her.

  “Our dead cannot rest, either,” the sergeant said. “Those wagons must roll through the night.”

  “You are in no shape to drive,” a peasant said. “We will take your corpses to Kingsrock, though we do not know the reason for your rush. The dead do not hurry.”

  “We will send our own with you, for they know the reason.”

  The sergeant bundled four of their most able men into blankets, gave them wineskins of beer and hot soup, and sat them on the wagon benches next to the drivers.

  “I charge you with this task,” the sergeant said. “Do not fail us now.”

  The guards did not respond with words. They gripped their rifles instead.

  Then the wagons rolled out of town, into the dark, and the men left behind fell, one by one, into merciful sleep, some in barns, some in houses, many sprawled on the wooden floor of the chapel, its fire blazing cheerfully.

  “I will pay,” Christopher said, and then he fell asleep too.

  He awoke with a start. His body was bruised and aching, but it was not cold. There was food, hot food. There were fresh bandages and priests. There was a Curate.

  “This is more than I can handle,” the Curate said. “I have saved your worst, but others will die if they are not seen soon. I have sent for wagons from the town, for oddly this village does not have any.”

  But Faren’s carriage beat the other wagons, rolling into town before noon.

  “I can’t have you in this shape,” the Cardinal said, and he healed Christopher on the spot, the pain and fatigue melting away like water down a drain. “Now pray, while I see to your men.”

  The Cardinal had a staggering amount of healing power at his command. Within the hour the army was still wounded, but not seriously. No one else would die. Christopher had renewed his spells, and he added them to the pot, but they were a sparkle next to Faren’s glory.

  “Recover here for three more days, then return to your camp at Kingsrock,” Faren told the men. “The local priests can finish your healing. I hope you are proud of your scars, because you will bear them for the rest of your lives. This is the price of not being healed while the wound is fresh.

  “You, however, are coming with me,” he told Christopher.

  “My men need to be resupplied,” Christopher objected. “I must send a letter to Burseberry.”

  “You can do that from the Cathedral. On the way there, you can tell me what the Dark happened.”

  They got to Kingsrock well after nightfall. Christopher did not get to see much of the city from the carriage window, and then they were in a grand stable, Captain Steuben waiting for them.

  “Your madness precedes you,” he told Christopher. “Our Cathedral is stacked with corpses, and priests pray night and day.”

  “They are not going to stay corpses,” Christopher said.

  Steuben shook his head. “You cannot ask this of the Saint. There are too many.”

  “I can pay,” Christopher said, but Faren cut him off.

  “Hush, both of you. This is not the place.”

  They gave Christopher a nice room, but it still reminded him of his original cell back in Knockford.

  “I’m under house arrest again, aren’t I?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “For your own protection,” Faren said. “You have no idea what trouble you’ve caused. Now rest. There will be time enough in the morning.”

  In the morning he prayed again, selecting spells for the coming days. He thought carefully about what he might need. Then he took a bath, ate breakfast, and dressed in clothes that had been cleaned during the night.

  The Saint received him in a room so holy it made his beard twitch. Faren was there, and Steuben.

  “Tell us your story,” the Saint said. “Faren has already told us, but it is a good story, and I would like to hear it from you.”

  So he told them, as concisely as he could. But this time he included how Karl had died.

  “I can understand reviving the Goodman,” Steuben said. “But how can you hope to revive them all? What a wealth of tael that would be.”

  “Indeed,” the Saint said, “it would be a tremendous expense. Much more than you spent raising your army in the first place. How can you afford this? I know you said you defeated many enemies, and I know in this place you cannot lie, but all the same I find myself doubtful. Forgive an old man for his weakness of faith.”

  Christopher didn’t blame him. After all, the last time they’d met, Christopher had been begging for money. He took the purple rock, as big as a walnut, out of his pocket and set it on the table.

  Faren’s and Krellyan’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Steuben blinked.

  “Our difficulties are not over,” Faren said softly. “That does not belong to Pater Christopher but to the commander of his regiment.”

  “Who deserted me in the field,” Christopher said. “If
he wants it, let him come and take it from the men who earned it.”

  “He describes it otherwise,” Faren said, in lawyer mode. “He suggests that you committed mutiny, disobeyed a direct order, and put magic and tael at the risk of falling into the hands of the enemy.”

  “And if I did? How does that entitle him to this? Should he profit from my alleged crimes?”

  “Your mind is sharp as ever,” Faren said approvingly. “We might legally save your tael. But how shall we save your head?”

  “Duke Nordland is Bright,” Krellyan said. “Surely he will not demand this.”

  “Duke Nordland is shamed by commoners and priests,” Steuben said. “And denied a huge prize. I am not so certain what he will do.”

  Faren looked pained. Christopher was reminded of that moment after his first duel, when the Cardinal had looked into the future and thought to see terrible things. “The Kingdom is in turmoil. Nordland has almost started one war. When he found his erstwhile allies marching home instead of marching to the battlefield, he accused them of treachery. One was Dark, so the charge was not wholly out of the question. Now the King’s Peace is in danger as Bright blames Dark, and Dark blames everyone. I fear when he hears what you plan to do with his tael, he might start another war.”

  “And who could fault him?” Steuben asked. “What a staggering waste of tael. Consider, next year we will have two hundred more boys, but we will not have such a rock as this.”

  “My men will be revived first,” Christopher said. “That part is not negotiable. Then my army must be resupplied. After that, I don’t care if you rob me.”

  “You are like some kind of seed that grows disruption wherever it goes, while never taking root itself,” Steuben said.

  “Catalyst,” Christopher said, supplying the right word, but Steuben shook his head sadly.

  “To spend this tael reviving commoners will inflame passions on every side of the balance. Do not ask me why, for I do not know. I just know it will.”