Ordination

by Daniel Ford

  “One man? One man ordered you away from your appointed tasks?”

  “I’m gettin’ t’that m’lord, beg yer pardon,” Kyle went on. “We turned on him. It was one man, on a horse, a great big grey destrier, a fine huge beast. And he was armored and armed like a knight. His shield was a blue field, somethin’ on it in gold. I didn’t see what. Well then Sir Goddard tells him to clear off or die, and this man shakes his head almost…almost sad like. He says, “I offer you one chance. Ride off and rejoin your army, or, better still, go freezing home.” Sir Goddard says that loyal subjects of Baron Delondeur will do whatever he commands or be branded and scourged for traitors, and that not only will he press who he wants, he’ll give their sisters and their sweethearts to his men and burn their frozen village to the ground. Well, the sunburst knight, he doesn’t say another word.”

  Chosen Man Kyle took a long, dry swallow. He looked longingly at the flagon of wine on Lord Captain Thryft’s table, pursing his lips. Quickly realizing the futility, he went on with his story, slightly hoarse.

  “He gives his mount the spur and lowers his lance, and Sir Goddard, he does the same, doesn’t miss a second. The bannerman tells us to ride the fool off if he survives Sir Goddard’s charge, and ‘tis then when the arrows start flyin’. Plucked our outriders from their saddles before we knew what was happenin’—”

  “Arrows? What arrows? Was there a company of bowmen hidden in the village?”

  “Far as I know, m’lord, there were but two. I’m gettin’ to that…Sir Goddard and the other man, m’lord, they met with a clatter such as I’ve never heard—I have never seen a man flung as far off his horse as Sir Goddard, and he was a fair rider and a good hand with a lance. He clears fifteen paces easy in the air and lands with an ‘orrible thump, and he screams, and you could just feel his bones shatterin’, m’lord. Then it was all a mess. Arrows coming, m’lord, from two places, and then that big grey armored man was among us on his horse swingin’ a hammer and he knew what he was about. Bannerman Teldin tried t’take ‘im on and got his face smashed in and ‘is neck broke. And then the…the other one, the archer, m’lord she—”

  Thryft’s eyes widened. “She?”

  “Aye, m’lord, she. She just appeared behind him, just standin’ behind his horse, an’ arrow nocked. It were sorcery of a kind, m’lord. Had to be! He spoke up again and said he demanded our surrender…in the name of the Mother, whoever that is. One of the lads made a move for ‘im and the woman with the bow put an arrow through his hand, pinned it to his thigh. And then…” His face pale and his own eyes wide and fearful, his voice halting a moment. “Then, m’lord…then she disappeared again.”

  “This is too much to credit, Chosen Man Kyle,” Thryft roared, pounding a fisted hand into his other palm. “Sorcery? A troop of my men driven off when they had the advantage five-to-one? How drunk are you, trooper?”

  The man winced at his sudden demotion, and his face betrayed hurt. “M’lord, I’m as sober as the day I was born, and I rode straight through t’tell ya this, endangering m’horse. Sir Goddard is bein’ borne in slow by the rest of the troop on account of his wounds. Only five of us left including him, m’lord. I can’t imagine he’ll survive the trip. He screamed every time we touched him or moved him. His…his arms were just hangin’ limp, m’lord. Like the only thing keeping them to his body were his armor.

  The captain crossed his arms over his mailed chest, slowly tapping the gloved fingers of his right hand on his left elbow. “A squadron of my best outriders, half a score led by one of my finest knights, on a simple recruiting drive to a village full of peasants,” Thryft practically spat the word, “who proceeded to defeat them?”

  The soldier in front of him straightened up a bit stiffly at the captain’s pronunciation of “peasants” and said, “The village folk had naught to do wi’ it, m’lord. ‘Twas the two…well, m’lord, I said sorcery, but he…they both said he was, well…” His voice trailed off, but he cleared his throat, rallied, and, looking straight at his captain, said, “a paladin.”

  “A paladin?” With theatric precision, Thryft raised one eyebrow at his soldier.

  “Aye sir, so he said. When we had surrendered he took off his helm and…lectured us, like.”

  “So what did this paladin look like? Eight feet tall in gleaming argent armor, with a flaming sword and a face so fair half the village women threw themselves at him, and the other half wanted to? On a pure white steed as well, I suppose?”

  “Er…no, m’lord. None o’that. Hard t’say how tall a man is when he’s on horseback. A big mean lookin’ grey destrier it was too, like I said. Be like ridin’ on the top of a small mountain, I think. But he’s probably no taller than you, m’lord. But he was a big man too, and when he got close, fierce lookin’. A man who’d seen some fightin’. Nose broke and all pushed to the side. And his armor was grey and rough looking. Sturdy enough, but no polish to it.”

  “And did this paladin have a name? Sir Splayed-snoot?”

  “Said his name was Allystaire, m’lord. Sir Allystaire, Arm of the Mother.”

  The captain mused on this a moment, tapping his chin with the index finger of his right hand. “Broken nose, you said? Ugly man he was, and named Allystaire?” He glanced at the soldier, who nodded emphatically.

  Lord Captain Thryft stood up, slapped his left hand against his thigh, and said, “Adjutant! Paper!”

  “D’ya know him, m’lord?”

  “I might,” Thryft answered, “and if I do, he is no paladin, merely an exile who can’t stay well lost.” By this time, an aide-de-camp had produced paper, ink, and quill, and the captain was dashing off a quick note. “Courier! Courier!” he bellowed, even as he scribbled the last few lines, sprinkled the paper with sand, and then carefully folded it. He picked up a stick of green sealing wax, held it over a lantern that dangled from the beam till it melted, and sealed the folded letter with a heavy stamp that lay on his camp table. He thrust the letter into the waiting hands of the courier that had come at the lord captain’s call.

  As Thryft handed the letter over, he said, “With all due haste for the central camp; on to Londray if Baron Delondeur has made for Winter Quarters by the time you reach it. Kill a horse if you must.” The courier nodded, saluted, and dashed off through the muddy, smoky camp at a steady trot, heading for a picket line.

  * * *

  Footsteps, though carefully trod, resounded loudly on the polished stone walkways of the temple. A careful tread was imperative, for the walkways along the floor were all just wide enough for one person to cross at a time, and extended a yard or so—it varied with tides—above a patch of rolling, lightly foaming sea water. There was only one figure crossing through the center of the temple now, a very tall woman walking beneath an enormous metal sculpture of a dragon; its surface was greening with age, and it stood on a massive plinth above the very center of the gleaming and slippery stone. The woman was clad in long sea-green robes, with a silver, gem-crusted amulet around her neck and a heavy, curved knife belted at her waist.

  She paused briefly, contemplating the dragon as she passed beneath it. She clutched at her amulet and walked on, making no sign of obeisance. It did not do to show weakness before the state of the Sea Dragon Rampant, where legend held that Braech’s worship had first come to the mainlaind—and where, rumor and superstition had it, the cowardly and the weak were ‘fed,’ as sacrifices, to the statue.

  She soon passed out of the temple’s central chamber and into a warren of tunnels and rooms behind it. Most of the building was projected onto the water on heavy, deeply sunken posts, and so the further back she walked, the more it felt as though she were swaying with the motion of the waves, though her gait had quickened now that the floor was a solid piece. She quickly found the door she sought, knocked, and opened it without waiting for a response.

  Inside, the room looked much like an officer’s cabin on a sailing vess
el; most of the furniture was bolted into place and most movable objects were built with wide, flat bottoms. Behind a large table, upon which rested a double-sized writing desk, sat a man in blue robes whose height projected his salted-grey head far above the desk. He wore an amulet similar to the woman’s, though of undoubtedly finer work and more weight of gems. In his hand was a quill; on the desk sat a bowl of sand, several cut-glass bottles of ink, and other accoutrements of his task. Several texts sat at his elbow, the top one of which was open. It was, the woman noted, bound in iron, and a heavy, open lock clanged gently against the table as the man’s elbow brushed it.

  She bowed lightly, inclining her body forward from the waist, but neither bending her neck nor dropping her eyes. “Choiron,” she addressed the man.

  “Marynth Evolyn,” the tall, bearded man intoned, standing as he did so. “Why are my urgent studies disrupted?” Carefully, without apparent hurry, he slipped one long-fingered hand over the open text and closed it; the pages slipped together and the cover slapped loudly shut.

  The woman, who was only a few inches short of the choiron in height, cleared her throat. “Reports have come to me, Choiron, reports of words that I thought would be of interest to you.”

  “What you think will be of interest to me is not likely to be,” he replied, his face darkening, but his voice staying calm. “Speak quickly or continue to waste my time at your own peril, Marynth.”

  Clearing her throat, Evolyn reached into the sleeve of her robe and drew forth several rolled parchments, quickly drawing one open with a practiced motion of thumb and forefinger. “Are you quite certain, Choiron? Not even reports of heathens daring to call themselves paladins?” She let one paper snap closed, and unrolled another. “One apparently referring to himself as the Arm of the Mother? “

  The choiron drew himself up to even fuller height, and squaring his shoulders. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared, “Where in the Sea Dragon’s name have you heard…” His voice trailed off in ire.

  Evolyn tilted her head to the side. “Braech is the Lord of Trade and Accords and overseeing such things are part of the duties you assigned me, Choiron; no one carries such tales farther or faster than gossiping merchants or yarn-spinning sailors, and all such folk belong to the Sea Dragon and seek out His Servants.”

  Symod recovered his calm and smiled, very faintly, nodding to the woman almost graciously. “Do go on, Marynth.”

  She smiled, spots of color appearing in her otherwise pale cheeks. “It appears that there are three of them…this ‘Arm’, whom my reports are calling, alternately, Alexander, Asdair, and—”

  The choiron’s face darkened dangerously and the Marynth’s blush quickly faded as she took a half step backwards.

  “Allystaire,” he grated through clenched teeth. “So that was…” He took a deep breath, composed his face, and made a generous gesture with one hand. “Continue.”

  She nodded, took a ragged breath, and said, “Some unidentified woman who apparently travels with him. Accounts of her are much more varied and wild. And a third who appears entirely unconnected. Fewer tales of miracles and more of rousing preaching and calling to arms. He calls himself Rede the Sighted, Eye of the Mother.”

  * * *

  “Coldbourne? What in the Greenest Cold is that old warhorse doing rousing my rabble?” The speaker stood in front of a small brazier that glowed with coals but gave off faint heat. He wore an arming coat with gleaming mail along the sleeves and a cloak of pale-green silk that would offer no protection against the weather.

  The slightest hint of autumn chill snuck into the pavilion as its large front and back flaps were tied open. He was an old man, with a great grey beard that had once been blonde and a head that was fringed with a thin ring of hair that had lost most of its color, but he stood straight, with his shoulders back and his large, gnarled hands resting upon the swordbelt he wore. The blade it bore was too large, too heavy, and too well oiled to be mere ceremony. Upon his head sat a slim circlet of silver gleaming with the untarnished shine of newness, a roughly cut round emerald in its center.

  “I cannot say, my Lord Baron,” murmured the green-jacketed, lightly-armored courier who stood before him, his boots and clothing spattered with mud; he wavered slightly in his feet but snapped himself back to attention.

  The baron caught this and said, “Green’s sake man, sit, warm yourself. Wine!” He smacked a hand against his thigh as he called out the last word, and a servant scurried from the edge of the pavilion with a flagon, and another appeared with a tray of cups. The baron himself filled two and handed one to the soldier, who took it wide-eyed, and gratefully and started to mumble his thanks. The baron waved off the soldier’s words and raised his own cup. “No bowing and scraping, man, not here…in the field we’re all soldiers, eh? Share the hardships, the food, the victories, and the glory. Now, about this message.” He held up the crumpled parchment in his other hand. “You know what it says?”

  “I heard rumors, m’lord, and whispers, as I rode. Word of Sir Goddard Bainsely’s death reached me on the roads and in the inns. Way I heard it, some giant ripped his arms off.”

  The baron snorted and waved the parchment dismissively. “Giants? This far south, lad? Nonsense. They stay up in the frozen places, contend with the elves and the wolves and the fur-clad savages. Too warm for ‘em here. Besides, real giants, the true Gravekmir? They’d’ve left no bones of Sir Goddard Bainsely’s to be sent back to the Salt Towers.”

  “As you say, m’lord. Even so, every tale shared that bit about his arms.”

  Baron Delondeur took a long sip of his wine and eyed the message again, holding it close to the light thrown by the brazier. “Yes. An account got to me by pigeon said much the same.” He downed the rest of his wine and looked to a back, dark corner of the tent. “Finish your wine and go get yourself some food, lad,” he said, his voice a bit distracted. “And here.” He held his cup out—a servant darted forward to take it—then dug into a pouch on his belt and pulled free a small round wooden chit with something stamped upon it. “Take this to the paymasters. Means an extra week’s wages. Find a bed, get a fresh horse, and back to your camp in the morning, aye?”

  The soldier finished his wine in a deep gulp, splattering some across the would-be mustache scattered across his upper lip, and took the chit offered to him with a grateful, even obsequious sort of bow, mouthed his subservience, and disappeared into the twilight outside the tent.

  “Go with him, all of you,” the Baron snapped, once the soldier was out of earshot. A trio of servants that waited in the corners of the pavilion followed the soldier into the night.

  Another figure glided out of the fourth corner of the pavilion, joining the baron at the brazier. He was robed in dark green, and his deep-set eyes, beneath a shaved head, were pools of shadow. Even in the darkness that began to gather with only the light of the brazier, his hands stood out. Ten tiny points of dark red light, one bright spot beneath the nail of each hand, blazed into the darkness of the tent. “It is what I told you would come to pass, Baron Delondeur,” the man said. “Had you been willing to keep funding my haruspicy—”

  “It was costing me a freezing fortune in links. And all the stops in between, so many mouths to silence and hands grasping for weight, Cold! Besides, sounds as though it’s just three men.”

  “I disagree,” the bald man said, his voice smooth, calm, and brooking no argument.

  The baron was silent, and the bald man continued. “I think it is both less than three men, in the sense that such as you can understand, and far, far more. In any case I shall have to return to The Dunes. I will depart tonight. I will need silver.”

  The baron cleared his throat and nodded quickly. “You have the letters of mine that you need…”

  “Indeed. Enjoy your little war, Baron…”

  “It was my little war that I’ve hired you to help me fight!”

 
“And I shall. When I know my enemy. Until then, fight as you have been fighting this score of years and more. Move your toy soldiers around on the map and butcher some peasant boys. Bang at each other with your clever maces and your brilliant swords. It is, after all, going so very well for you.” The man pulled gloves from inside one sleeve and tugged them over his hands; the tiny spots of red vanished, but the brightness of them seemed to remain in the baron’s vision for a few seconds more. He turned and walked back toward the dark corner from whence he had come, and, as far as the baron knew, disappeared into it.

  Not many turns later, the baron awoke with a start. The comely young bed warmer he’d had sent up was no longer at his side. A cold draft had blown across his face; his hands, fast for his age, reached for the sword that had lain at his bedside longer than most men lived.

  It wasn’t there. He sat up with a start, but stopped, as he suddenly felt a hand with long, graceful fingers and rough, swordsman’s palms cover his mouth, and then the barest whisper of a blade pressed lightly against his throat.

  “Hush, Baron. Hush,” said a raspy-voiced woman. “Your little camp follower is well, though she and I had a talk, and I expect she won’t ever be back. I’m not here to kill you, or even to scare you. Just to bring you a message from the man who is, how did I hear you put it…rousing your rabble?” The long, strong fingers uncoiled from around his mouth for a moment.