Ordination

by Daniel Ford

  “Still here, still here,” she moaned, “still watching! Still the blood and the awful yellow fire!” Her body shook and she tried to scramble away from Allystaire in fear, beginning a keening wail, her hands bunching into fists and striking uselessly, weakly at his armored chest.

  Idgen Marte had flown to his side and, knowing well enough what he could and couldn’t do for the woman, he let go and scrambled aside. The tall warrior gently placed a hand upon the village woman’s head and spoke in hushed, soothing tones that Allystaire could not quite catch. The woman’s eyes, wide and rolling in fear, suddenly slid nearly closed and she slumped against Idgen Marte, though she did not fall back into a faint.

  “Still watching,” she murmured again quietly, a muted sob. “Awful yellow eyes. Watching. There.” The woman pointed, and all three of them turned their faces to the direction she pointed.

  Had it not been for Torvul’s potion, none of them would have seen it; a patch, less than a pace on any side, of darker darkness floated in the air, hidden by night’s own shadows. But they did see it, and all three of them stood at once, Idgen Marte gently setting the woman down, and all three reached for weapons.

  Idgen Marte’s sword cleared its sheath first; Torvul’s crossbow was suddenly leveled and bolted, and Allystaire’s hands filled with hammer and shield. He opened his mouth and shouted, “You craven. If hiding behind these folk have done them any lasting harm, then enjoy the last days of life your cowardice has bought. We do not fear you. The Mother does not fear you.”

  “And we will find you,” Idgen Marte added, her voice little more than a steely hiss.

  * * *

  When the half-armored man, the dwarf, and the Concordat woman suddenly stood and stared straight into their scrying portal, the sorcerers, gathered in their dark spirit-room continents away, showed no signs of concern.

  But when the paladin spoke, suddenly he was not a man half-armored in steel and leather and holding a heavy but plain maul; the hammer in his hand glowed with a light like the noonday sun and its terrible brightness was thrown back at them by the mirror-bright armor that he wore. The woman, too, had changed, and in fact they could not see her except as an outline, a hazy shadow thrown by the brightness of the man’s armor. The vision lasted but an instant, but the overwhelming brightness of it sent each of them reeling, and their scrying view seemed focused on the surface of the sun itself.

  The portal shut off with a wave of bilious, pulsing green fingertips.

  “That was unexpected,” the lead sorcerer said in his dual-pitched voice.

  “They are dangerous. I see Bhimanzir’s point, now.” This from the sorcerer who leaked blue energy, his own voice half-empty, hollow. “This human ought to be destroyed.”

  “Better he were brought to heel. Isolated. Captured, studied. If there is power there, its source must be understood.” This from the voice to which they all hearkened.

  “He claims it is a goddess, Eldest.” This, from Gethmasanar. “A new deity. Or an old one.”

  “Nonsense” warred with “Ridiculous”, but as soon as the voice that was almost two voices spoke, the other three hushed and listened.

  “Gods, as these people would have them, do not exist. And what deities there are do not grant such power as that. Perhaps in his native ignorance, he thinks he has spoken with some deity. We will know better when Bhimanzir has done his work.” The green eyes flitted to focus on the shadow that had been silent since his earlier chastisement. “Return to your baron. Counsel him. Compel him if you must; be certain to turn him against this man. Under no circumstances shall he be allowed to gain a refuge or accrue a following to his novel superstition. Be vigilant; watch and wait to see what his motives and means are.”

  “If I may,” Bhimanzir said, and waited for the other sorcerer to incline his head in permission, “I think it likely that his motives are precisely what he says they are.”

  “Then it should be no great difficulty to outmaneuver him.”

  Bhimanzir lowered his head. “As you say, Eldest,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Surely others will move against him. Perhaps we can use them as well. And Bhimanzir? If your apprentice shows no command of his will, then soon it will be time to make such use of him as you can.”

  Gethmasanar broke in angrily. “No. I tell you, I have felt the brush of his will. If he can be made to see, to understand. There is a pathway to power in that boy that could burn us to a cinder. Grind us to dust. Reduce our minds to puppets. Even yours. He must be counted among The Knowing.”

  Slowly, the deep and poisonous green smoke that filled the very wide eyesockets of the Eldest moved slowly through the darkness till they focused upon Gethmasanar, who met the gaze steadily. “Very well,” the sorcerer thrummed. “Another season, perhaps. Now, Bhimanzir, go.”

  The sorcerer stood, feeling the shame and the envy of being the least of the gathered powers. His red-glowing fingers curled into fists as he stepped into darkness and disappeared.

  * * *

  The night air was cool, but as it went on, Allystaire began to sweat. He’d set down his shield and unbuckled his sheathed sword from his back, but the hammer still rode on his hip and his shoulders ached with the weight of his armor. There had been no indication that the affected villagers were likely to wake up on their own, but neither was there any sign of them getting worse, so in the end there was nothing for it but for him and Idgen Marte to move among them one by one.

  A half dozen or so slightly dazed peasants already sat at one corner of the green under Torvul’s nervous watch. Allystaire knelt at the side of a child whose form had been buried beneath two larger forms; judging by the red hair the child and the woman shared, he thought it reasonable to assume them mother and son.

  His fingers felt for the pulse. It was there, but faint, and once again, with something that was slowly becoming practiced ease, he extended his inner sense into the child’s body and touched it, very lightly, with a flicker of the Mother’s radiance. The boy breathed in sharply, his eyes fluttered, and, his mouth opened in a wordless cry. Idgen Marte was ready and reached for the boy, quieting his mind and returning him to calm with her own Gifts. She helped the boy to his feet and began to walk him over to Torvul, whose face was set in a grimace of displeasure. The two exchanged words Allystaire couldn’t hear.

  He stood and stretched his back, covering a yawn with the back of a fist, and was still yawning when Idgen Marte approached him. “Dwarf says he doesn’t like how exposed we are out here in the middle of a field.”

  “Nor do I. Shame these villagers lacked the decency and foresight to be ensorcelled and then dumped in the middle of a defensible position, eh?” He shook his head to clear the weariness and said, “Let us push on while he grumbles; he excels at it, after all.”

  “His potion is still working and my eyes haven’t grown a cataract yet. Give him credit for that.”

  “I will—when I do not think it will start him reaching for our purse.” Allystaire bent and began carefully to feel along the neck of the next prone villager, a large man, thick-necked and broad-shouldered, who needed turning over. He was a dead weight, and of a size with the paladin himself.

  Idgen Marte snorted and squatted next to him. “He could reach for our purse all he likes; there’s hardly anything keeping its sides apart.”

  “I have some gemmary put away.”

  “What is it with you and jewels?”

  Allystaire ignored her question and pushed a bit of the Mother’s power into the man’s body, through his pulse, and the man came awake with wild, angry swings of his tree-trunk arms that sent the both of them sprawling onto their backs and scrambling away. The man roared to his feet and then stared, blinking at them.

  “Neither of you’ve got yellow eyes,” he shouted, curling his fists and dropping into, Allystaire noted, a competent boxer’s stance. “Are ya the man’s serv
ants? Stand to and answer me!”

  “Had to be the blacksmith’d wake up angry,” Idgen Marte muttered as she rolled to her feet, holding her hands out, palms up.

  Allystaire was slower to get up, but when he reached his feet, he did the same. “We are here to help, goodman smith,” he said, his voice heavy with fatigue. “If the man with the yellow eyes is your enemy, then he is ours as well.”

  The man who, as far as Allystaire could tell, was staring into the darkness at two shadowy, threatening figures, wavered, but did not drop his hands. Don’t make me have to punch it out with you in the dark and the mud, Allystaire thought wearily.

  “That bastard said he was our friend too and the next thing he’s…he’s in my head…Fortune, what was he?” The man spat and shook, furious and terrified.

  “He was in your head, aye, and now he’s gone,” Idgen Marte said matter-of-factly. “And if we wanted to hurt you, or rob you, why bother to wake you?”

  “Look to the southwest corner of the green, goodman,” Allystaire said. “A dwarf waits there, watching over such of your villagers as we have awoken. See that dim lantern light?” Allystaire turned and gave the dwarf a wave, and Torvul, his vision similarly brightened with drops of his own potion, lifted a dim green lamp and waved it; the blacksmith saw it, and his hands dropped to his sides, but he didn’t yet move.

  “The dwarf could use your help,” Idgen Marte said, “getting folk settled. They’re calm, but not all awake. Give us your patience and all will be explained, I promise.” She waited a moment, then added, “And he’s got dwarfish spirits; looks as though a tot’ll do you good, eh?”

  The promise of spirits got the blacksmith in motion and heading toward the distant twinkle of Torvul’s tiny green-tinted lamp. “Dwarfish whiskey’s good then?” he asked as he passed. Allystaire and Idgen Marte both mumbled their assurances, and the man sauntered off to join the dwarf.

  * * *

  The village, it turned out, was called Hilgensdale, and the beer was indeed fairly drinkable, as Idgen Marte and Allystaire sat in its inn, exhausted, with the full light of early morning filtering through its exposed windows, the glass having been shattered, or oilskin torn, when ensorcelled townfolk had crawled through them. It had taken most of the night and a good deal of energy to get the village back on its feet, and with the help of Torvul and the blacksmith, who turned out to be called Haight, those who’d fallen lifeless upon the green had all gotten back on their feet and off to beds.

  Torvul had insisted upon sleeping in his own bed in the back of his wagon, while Allystaire and Idgen Marte had both gotten such sleep as they could, in spare rooms on the inn’s second floor. Both found themselves awake and aware, if barely, after only a few turns.

  “Are we doomed to be up with every dawn,” Idgen Marte wondered aloud, as she filled their second mugs from a jar of beer left upon the table. “Because I can’t think of too many worse punishments.”

  Allystaire thought a moment before answering, arms crossed over his chest. “It is hardly dawn. And surely we will get none of Her work done by having a lie-in.”

  Idgen Marte punched his forearm lightly. “Might get it done better if we were rested.”

  Allystaire snorted and was about to reply when the door swung open and Torvul stomped in, carrying a mug that trailed steam and the strong scent of robust tea. “So,” the dwarf grumbled, “how long are we going to be staying in this dungheap before pushing on to Londray?”

  “Mind your manners, alchemist,” Allystaire snapped. “The villagers are likely to be up and about any moment.”

  Torvul took a healthy swig from his mug, heedless of its heat. “I could talk any of the townfolk into seeing it a compliment,” he noted at length. “And some of ‘em are already up. I saw some dust trails, off in the distance. Today’s apparently a market day, so every turnip and mangel grubber’ll be coming in. Good day to get out quietly in the hubbub.”

  “Better day for you to sell some spirits, mend some pots, sharpen knives and the like,” Idgen Marte pointed out. “All those beets’ll be silver in some farmer’s palm soon.”

  “Surely even a mangel-farmer has use for some of my tinctures, my elixirs and potions…”

  “I do not even know what a mangel is,” Allystaire said, standing up slowly, stiffly, then holding out a warning hand, first finger extended, to both Idgen Marte and Torvul. “Nor do I wish to know. Nor do I wish to see you selling any of your poisons here today.”

  Torvul’s free hand pressed to his chest in an aggrieved, dramatic pose. “Poisons? Why, Sir Allystaire, my life’s work, reduced so callously. I don’t recall poisoning your eyes last night.”

  “So that makes one, of two attempts, that worked. Bad odds for folk who cannot afford the loss. Start hawking your medicines, dwarf, and I will tell them all what happened in Grenthorpe.”

  Torvul was about to respond when a hue and cry rose in the green outside; a man, tall and lean and dressed in plain wool, came running onto the churned grass and stopped, yelling breathlessly. “Murder! Murder at Edvar’s farm! Please, anyone. Murder!”

  Torvul quickly gulped the rest of his tea and calmly hung the mug from one of the many wire loops on his jerkin, while Allystaire and Idgen Marte blew past him for the door, the woman outpacing the knight by several steps.

  He shook his head and slowly turned to follow them, muttering to himself, “Never going to make color or weight following this pair, you know. Time to get back on the road, right?” His tone was almost imploring, but he didn’t answer himself, only sighed and trotted after them on his shorter, stouter legs.

  CHAPTER 34

  Assassin

  The interior of the cottage was a scene of slaughter, with bodies and pieces of bodies strewn about the flag-stoned floor, the table, and the hearth; pools and stains of blood darkened every surface, its heavy copper stink unavoidable.

  “I’m their hired man, m’lord,” the tall and skinny peasant man was explaining to Allystaire, who stood in the midst of the carnage, jaw taut and nostrils flared. “Came at dawn to help them load and drive for the market today. Cuisin’s m’name. Edvar were a good man, m’lord, with no enemies.” Cuisin stood pale and wide-eyed outside the door, explaining everything in a shocked rush.

  “Torvul,” Allystaire asked, his voice so calm and so even that he frightened even himself. “Sorcery?”

  “Aye,” the dwarf replied, and Idgen Marte nodded her head in assent.

  “Why?”

  The dwarf cleared his throat, then spoke, breathing carefully through his mouth. “Power his spells, my guess. Lot of folk for him to control…”

  “So they were just wood on the fire, so to speak?”

  “The analogy’s not perfect, but you’ve the gist.”

  Allystaire nodded faintly. “How do we find him?”

  “Now, you’ve got to understand—” Torvul began in a conciliating tone.

  “Understand this,” Allystaire interrupted calmly, even as his hands curled into fists and his blood pounded in his head. “This sorcerer was here for me. For us. Our Gifts. Our power.” he said, indicating Idgen Marte with a wave of a hand. “I mean him to have it. Every freezing bit. And before I am done he will know the fear these folk have endured, I promise. I swear it on the Mother’s Gifts to me.”

  Allystaire’s vow sent a charge rippling across his own skin, and he knew instantly that Idgen Marte felt it as well. It was if a chime played faintly and distantly, yet he was able to hear it and knew that it signaled something.

  Torvul started slightly, throwing a look back over his shoulder at Cuisin’s pale face, then spat to the ground and spoke without looking at Allystaire or Idgen Marte. “You’re a fool to swear an oath like that. Whatever power you’ve got, it’ll not stand to such as him.”

  “Cease your nattering, dwarf.” Allystaire strode out of the house, careful not to disturb any of the ghou
lish remains. “In this matter, be with me, be in my way, be out of it—but whatever you choose, be silent.”

  Allystaire deliberately uncurled his fists, but he loomed over the dwarf as if daring him to speak again. Then he turned his eyes toward Cuisin and said, “If you can tell me where in the house they kept bedding, blankets, and such, well, we can use them. And we will need shovels, mattocks, and the like later today.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but who are ya?”

  “I know it is all a bit of a blur, goodman, but we are here to help,” Allystaire replied, as he walked back into the morning sunlight with the lanky farmhand. “My name is Allystaire,” he began, but his words were cut off by a rush of air and a hard thunk.

  Suddenly Cuisin collapsed in a heap, clutching at the fletchings that sprouted from the meat of his thigh.

  Allystaire dropped to one knee beside the man, settling his left hand over the wound. He began searching for the special connection the Goddess’s Gift had taught him to seek. He felt the man’s spirit, terrified at the mutilation he’d discovered, doubly so at the wound he’d taken. Allystaire reached into the well of power the Goddess had granted him and started to draw Her healing from it like water, to pour it over the wound.

  The healing essence seemed to sizzle like water thrown on a grease fire. Something foul rose up and pushed it back at him. He knew he could heal the wound itself, draw the bolt, but there was something wrong in the wound, something that had been carried by the bolt. Something Her Gift would not touch.