Sword of the Bright Lady (37 page)

“No you can't,” Gregor objected quite logically.

“Don't leave us alone,” one of the boys whispered, but Gregor overheard.

“No need to worry, lad. We're pursuing them now. You'll be safe enough until we get back. But load your bows, just in case.”

“We need him,” Niona said. “Eat,” she told Christopher, passing him a tiny handful of berries. He was going to ask, but breathing was harder than eating, so he did what he was told. Unsurprisingly, the pain receded quickly, and he made it into Royal's saddle before the party left without him. He was going to ask if there were any more for the boys, but the druid shook her head.

“Why do we need him?” Cannan asked, innocently curious, as they rode out to the highway.

“Because he might still be the target of assassins, and we can't leave him lying around helplessly,” Lalania explained with a trace of exasperation.

“Because he is insanely lucky,” Karl said.

A hundred yards down the road, they found a roadblock. Two trees had been felled and strung with ropes. It was the work of a moment to open a path, but that was a moment they would not have had if Black Bart had been behind them.

Lalania's sharp eyes made a sad discovery. She slid from her horse and gently lifted the black-and-white body of Niona's kittenhawk, now broken and stained with red.

“I'm sorry,” she said to the other woman in genuine sympathy.

“It is the cycle,” was Niona's response, but her eyes were glistening and she turned away abruptly.

“It is a crossbow quarrel,” Karl said, examining the tiny corpse, his ironed flatness the only hint of his emotion. “A white one, fletched in goose feather.”

Christopher and Karl exchanged glances. They had seen this color of quarrel before, although last time it had been impaled in Karl's shoulder.

“My enemies combine against me, it seems.”

“So he had reinforcements waiting,” Cannan said. “Damn, but I'm good. If we had tried to flee, we would have been in Dark water.”

“Horses have been this way,” Lalania said. “Niona, can you see?”

“Yes,” the druid answered. “Karl's, and many others besides.”

“We've lost him, then,” Gregor complained. “With plenty of horses, a head start, and an unknown number of reinforcements, we don't dare chase him across the countryside.”

“Assuming he is even out there,” Lalania said. “For all we know, his spell took him home.”

“Well, there's one less Dark priest in the world. I suppose that will have to suffice for a day's work,” Gregor said, but he clearly wasn't ready to suffice.

“And a sack of heads,” Cannan said encouragingly. “We've made a tidy profit.”

“He stole Karl's horse,” Christopher complained.

“We stole his back,” Lalania pointed out. “Ten to one.”

“And you've got a nice pile of armor to add to your Black Bart collection,” Cannan laughed. “But let's get to the point. I claim six shares of the tael, for myself and Niona.”

“I claim four, for myself and Lalania,” Gregor said.

“The Pater claims two, one for himself and one for his troop,” Karl said, when it was clear Christopher hadn't realized he was supposed to say something.

“Fair enough,” Cannan said. “We'll pass on the arms. I don't fancy hauling that crap around. Unless there's any magic?”

“I doubt it,” Lalania said. “Bart seems like the type to take it with him, but I'll check. His men didn't even have purses. Except the priest.” She produced a leather pouch, tinkling with coins. “Not much, but it's gold.”

“We'll take half of that, then,” Cannan suggested, “and leave the arms to our valiant troop. Gods know they need them. And the horses for Karl, since the Goodman lost his.” Royal snorted, perhaps in approval.

Christopher was deeply annoyed that they were even having this conversation. There were more important things to think about than loot.

“If you're quite finished, what are we going to do? I have wounded, I have dead, and a long day's march through unfriendly territory.”

“It's a short march, and Earl Fram is as friendly as you can get for being a cheapskate,” Gregor said. “But I'll be glad to escort you.”

“We'll take you home, Pater,” Cannan said. “We'll get no more fun out of Bart today.”

“Ser is right,” Karl said. “Black Bart flees the field, for now. With your permission, Pater, I ride to Kingsrock.”

“Why?” Clueless, Christopher had to ask.

Karl almost revealed an emotion. “This was an act of open war. The Saint must be informed. Something must be done.”

“Don't get your hopes up,” Lalania cautioned. “Your Church ever walks with a light step.”

Karl did not deign to respond, simply looking at Christopher for release.

“Of course, Karl. Whatever you think is best.” Christopher was too tired to wonder why Karl was even asking him. Shouldn't Karl be telling him what to do? But the young man bowed his head, wheeled his newly gained horse, and was gone.

The rest of them rode back to the impromptu camp. Luckily for Christopher, Gregor took over command and set the still-functional boys to stripping bodies and boiling heads. All Christopher could do was sit next to Kennet's cold body and worry. What was he going to tell Dynae?

“Your share,” Niona said, delicately handing him a tiny purple stone.

It was about the right amount for a revival. Niona saw him looking speculatively at the corpse and shook her head.

“Your sympathy touches me, but is it not childish?” she said softly. “The cycle cannot be denied.”

“I'm not big on cycles,” he said. “I tend to think more in lines.”

More riders came from the road to join the camp, but they wore white. The town was only a few miles east, and Karl had stopped off long enough to alert the Vicar. Christopher felt stupid for not having marched there in the first place, but the man had made him feel so unwelcome, he hadn't thought of it as a place of refuge.

The Vicar had brought only four men with him. Either that was all he could mount, or he was counting on his moral and political authority. Either way, Christopher couldn't fault his personal bravery.

And he couldn't fail to be grateful after the man single-handedly healed all of the boys.

He didn't heal the knights, though. They weren't seriously injured, just scratched, since the combat had not completely exhausted their stocks of tael. Christopher's curiosity got the best of him, and he asked Cannan how long it would take for him to be at full fighting strength again.

“Tomorrow,” the big man laughed.

“It comes back that quickly?” Christopher was impressed.

“I don't know. I've never waited before. I just have to wait on Niona.”

Gregor was more helpful. “A week or so, Pater. Unless you see fit to hasten the process, when you are able.”

“Of course,” Christopher promised. “It's the least I can do.” He was a little unhappy that the Vicar hadn't already done it.

But Gregor excused the other priest. “He's probably low, Pater, and he wants to save some for emergencies.”

“He probably doesn't want to become involved in foreign affairs,” Lalania said, less sanguinely. “He'd like to pretend this was a fight between ranks that just happened to be on his land, instead of an attack on one of his Brothers. And in a way it was. I think Bart is more focused on the ring now than the sword.”

The boys had been building a funeral pyre and stacking the corpses on it. There was one body left, and everyone looked at Christopher expectantly.

“No,” he said. “We'll take him home with us.”

“I understand. His family will want to bury him in his own village,” the Vicar said, not understanding.

The Vicar's soldiers stood guard over the burning pyre. They would scatter the ashes later, leaving nothing identifiable. There would be no second chances for these men. The fate that Christopher had narrowly avoided reached out for him in the tendrils of foul smoke, sickening him.

As they group departed, he saw Cannan toss something small and black on the flaming pyre. When Niona thought no one was observing her, Christopher saw that she wept, and Cannan held her tenderly.

In Knockford his allies deserted him. Niona took Bart's warhorse with her, a fait accompli since she was the only one who could approach it, let alone ride it. She left her well-trained saddle mare in its place, adding to Christopher's newly acquired herd. It would be a good training horse for the boys, a way to work up to the less-forgiving cavalry horses.

Unnerved by the loss of the man who had been his shield for the last four weeks, Christopher tried to bribe Lalania and her slice of beefcake into replacing them.

“I need an intelligence agency. How much would it cost to put you on the payroll?” he asked.

She snapped her head in sharp exasperation. “What is it with men? Must you vase the flowers while they are blooming?”

He was pretty sure his lack of comprehension was not due solely to language issues.

“I am too young to settle down,” she sighed. “But I serve your cause, even if I am not your servant. And I serve your cause best on the road.”

Ser Gregor, at least, was convinced to stay.

“My blade is pledged to oppose the Dark, and thus I must follow its lead. However, you do seem to be attracting more than your fair share of Darkness, so if you'll feed me, I'll stick around for a while.”

It was a bargain price for a knight of the same rank as Cannan, so Christopher readily agreed. The boon was double; in Karl's absence, Gregor automatically took over command of the boys, putting them to work on drills and standing watches. He just couldn't bear to see them standing around idle.

The boys kept dropping hints that they would look dashing in all the armor they'd liberated from Black Bart's troop.

“That's the problem,” Christopher told them, “you would. The Vicar is angry enough that you even exist, following me around like a retinue. Imagine how annoyed she would be if you looked like knights.”

That shut them up. They may have fought desperate battles in distant lands against dark foes, but they were still afraid of annoying the Vicar. As was he, to be honest. The next conflict he would have to face without them. He was going to ruffle enough feathers as it was.

Helga washed his clothes that night and trimmed his hair and beard. The preparations were not missed by the sharp-eyed Gregor.

“Expecting a confrontation?” he asked. “Shouldn't you be trying on some of that fancy armor instead?”

“I'm confronting tradesmen, not soldiers. And no, you can't come. I'd leave my sword behind if I thought I could get away with it. They'll be angry enough as it is. I don't want them to feel like they're being invaded.”

“Why are they going to be angry?” Gregor asked with undue concern.

“The Saint gave me rights to the Old Bog. The townsmen aren't exploiting it efficiently, so I'm going to shake things up.”

This explanation worked as well on Gregor as it had on Captain Steuben, winning his immediate approval.

“Don't be too happy,” Svengusta warned the knight. “Give him time, and he'll get around to upending your whole way of life, too.” Svengusta laughed, but Christopher didn't. It was too close to the truth.

21.

SHOWDOWN AT OLD BOG

Looking over the crew of diggers Tom had hired, Christopher briefly considered calling for his troop again. But they were still back in the village, and he reminded himself this wasn't going to be a battle. The dirty, ragged, and not overly bright men before him weren't supposed to be impressive.

“I've not made you any friends,” Tom told him in a private voice. “Save of course for these men themselves. All of them were employed yesterday, though not happily. Now it's their employers who are unhappy.”

Christopher wanted to sigh, but he was saving all of his sighs for later. Briefly, ever so briefly, he felt a fleeting desire to be facing simple problems, like gangs of murderous swordsmen.

“I don't expect trouble,” Christopher told the men, “but I don't want you to run away. Just stand your ground, okay?”

The men looked a little confused, and even Tom was rendered curious.

“These men are tried and tested, I assure you, my lord, the bravest of the diggers in the Kingdom. They're not afraid of any patch of dirt.”

“How about angry crowds? I'm taking over Old Bog today.” Christopher showed them his deed. They couldn't read, but they recognized the Saint's stamp.

Tom winced. “I think I liked it better before you explained.”

They rode to battle in Fingean's wagon, a pair of wheelbarrows and a cluster of picks, shovels, and hammers their tools of war. The day was pleasant, being the middle of spring, and there were half a dozen young men hard at work in the bog. They watched the wagon approach with mild curiosity.