Sword of the Bright Lady (58 page)

“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.”

“Look at me not caring,” Christopher said. “I can pay,” he told Krellyan. “This is more than enough for your standard rate, several times over. Will you deny me this?”

“If you gave the tael to Nordland, then perhaps we could appease him.” Faren explained the options. “If you claim it, as I think legally you can, then he might claim your head, as I think legally he can.”

“I understood that the first time. It changes nothing.”

“There will still be much left over for Nordland,” Krellyan said. “Even after the King takes his tax.” The King got a quarter of the tael taken out of the Wild. That was what made him King.

“Perhaps not,” Christopher said. “Many of my men need regeneration. They are missing too many parts to fight. And some of my men need more than just revival. I brought one home in a sack. A small sack. If it is possible to revive him, I will, even if it costs every grain of tael in my possession.

“Is it possible?” he asked Krellyan point-blank, knowing the man could not dissemble here, not even a little.

“It is possible,” Krellyan said, “but only for me. None else can do this.”

“Well, then,” Christopher said. “After you get done charging me for that unique service, and all of the preservation spells, and resupplying my army, Nordland can have whatever crumbs of profit are left. I'll not make a fuss.”

Faren grinned, in spite of everything. “We might make a priest of you yet.”

“I will revive your men,” Krellyan said. “But you must understand, not all of them will return. We do not compel them, only invite them back. There are always a few that harbored secret shame or despair, and they do not return.”

“They will come back,” Steuben said. “For a commander like the Pater, they will return. They did not desert him in the field, they will not desert him now.”

Christopher thought of his act in extremis, the young man he had shot. He could only hope for the best.

“Again you expose yourself to the world, to save those we would have abandoned,” Krellyan said. “But what if we need you? Can you risk yourself so freely now?”

“You don't need me,” Christopher said sadly. “Jhom can make the guns. Fae can make the powder. And Karl can lead the army.”