Nightlord: Sunset (62 page)

We attracted a small audience.  Swordwork will always do that.  Most of them were professionals; I found that any man who commanded more than twenty others was allowed to carry a sword—a
sharmi
—as a symbol of rank even when not on the battlefield.  Knights—the officers—were further distinguished in that they could, first, usually afford decent armor and, second, always wore the sash.  The vast majority of our forces consisted of polearms, crossbows, and axes.  So we got people with an interest in swordwork—mainly ranking non-coms and other knights—as an audience.

We also had a few, ah… what’s the word I want?  Ladies?  No, “ladies” conjures up the image of fair maidens and pointy hats giving scarves and hankies to the knights.  I’m thinking a little lower on the social scale.  “Camp follower” might be closest.  Given they’d never seen us before, they felt it was a safe bet we were new here—and just arrived from a long journey.  Probable customers.

A couple were cute.  The rest were considerably less so.

A brilliant idea flashed on in my brain.  I had a perfect way to earn money.  It just leaped to mind.  But I’ll go into that later.

We finished whacking on each other and rested again; most of the onlookers drifted off.  A pair of non-coms came right up to us.  A trio of women hung around, smiling at us a lot but keeping a polite distance.

“Good afternoon, sir!” one of the non-coms declared.  The pair of them must have been cast from the same mold; they looked like twins to me.  They were broad-shouldered, maybe five-ten tall, and had that weather-beaten look that reminded me of old trees.  They even had almost-blond hair, cut identically, and they each had a matching scar on the left cheekbone.

“Good afternoon, sergeants,” Raeth replied.  “What can we do for you?”

“Sword-work, sir,” the other replied.  “My brother and I are always looking to be better.”

“Your brother, eh?  That seems obvious enough by the look of you.  What do you command?”

“Sir!” he said, standing straighter.  “I have two score infantry under arms, a moiety of Sir Elthar’s pikemen; my brother commands a quarter of Sir Latel’s archers.”

Raeth looked puzzled for a moment.  I could imagine why.  Pikemen and archers?  But Raeth asked the question on my mind.

“So, why are swords of such interest to you, soldiers?”

“Sir, the enemy is often not full willing to let us keep our distance,” answered the archer-commanding brother.  “And pikes are only good in formation; if the formation breaks, then it’s every man for himself in the rout.”

“Good answer,” Raeth said, nodding.  “Yes.  You wish to practice with us?”

“Not at all, sir,” answered the first.  If they sounded at all different, I couldn’t hear it.  “We wish to be taught, if your lordships are willing.”

Raeth and Bouger laughed, amused.  I didn’t see anything funny.

“A fine distinction, sergeant.  I find I like you.  What is your name?”

“I am Caedwyl, and this is my brother Caeron, sir.”  They each made a sort of micro-bow at the sound of their names.

“Very well.  Halar, if you would be so kind as to take them both, we shall see what skills they possess.”

“Me?” I asked.  “Why me?”

“The fight should go on longer that way.”

“Oh, thanks.”

So we hefted wood and laid into each other.  It did my ego good, at least.  They really weren’t fast, nor were they especially skilled; even in two-on-one, I took them both without taking a serious hit myself.  Caeron hurried me a bit while I was finishing off his brother, but I don’t think he expected me to duck, spin, and swipe his legs out from under him quite that fast.  Or that hard, but I didn’t break anything.

I helped them both up and there were no hard feelings; they seemed both impressed and abashed at once.  I know I felt much better about my swordsmanship than I’d felt in a long time.  It isn’t ego-building to know you’re stronger and faster than any mortal man and
still
get beaten regularly.  But maybe I was improving.  A little, anyway.

Raeth took over from there; I think he just wanted more of a rest.  I know he watched because he picked apart their attack like a cook takes apart a chicken.  He wasn’t brutal about it; he did it with precision and just the right touch of sarcasm and scorn.  The sergeants were blushing before it was half done and they kept standing straighter, eyes front, more rigid by the minute.  I pitied them the scathing evaluation.

Then it was my turn.  Suddenly, I pitied
me
.  Raeth took that ten-foot-tall feeling and whittled on me until I was about three-and-a-half.

“And what were you thinking by going to finish off Caedwyl before dealing with the threat at your back?  Were you
trying
to get Caeron’s blade in your spine?  Perhaps so that you might hold it there while you turned to him?  A novel method of disarming, I grant you, but I question the practicality.  Or was it impatience to finish one enemy before starting on a second?  How many times have I told you?  Disable one, disable the other, and then finish them at your leisure!  Do you have too much ringing in your ears from the head blows?”

I didn’t start any brushfires with my face, but I tried.

Bouger and I wound up drilling combinations.  Feint, feint, thrust; feint, feint, chop; parry, feint, thrust… I felt like Daffy Duck with a quarterstaff.  Cut, parry, spin, dodge, thrust!  Just without the cockeyed beak.

Raeth took the other two under his tutelage and started them to sweating; the boring part of sword-work is the first part where the novice learns by rote what reflexes he needs.  I got most of that with Sasha—and probably the best way, I might add.  It kept my attention and motivation high, that’s certain.  Unfortunately for Caedwyl and Caeron, they were getting the run-through just to make sure they had a firm grounding.  Couldn’t hurt them, and it would make it all the easier to help them along later.

Bouger and I fell out when the keep’s bell started chiming; dinner for the officers.  Raeth sent us on, sticking with his new charges until he was happy with them.

Inside, Bouger and I found out fish was very high on the list of things to eat.  It’s a sizable river, after all.  Boiled fish soup, chunky fish stew, fried fish fillet.  I like salmon, so I was in luck.  A collection of greens and some vegetables rounded out the evening meal—as officers, we rated the good stuff.  The drink was a choice: very thin beer or some water cut with wine; it was a lot more water than wine.

It didn’t seem to matter to most; appetites were good.  The conversation was mostly quiet, with a trio of musicians in the great hall to keep the place entertained, or at least provide background noise.  We were seated on benches on either side of the trestle tables that filled the hall and a dozen or more servants kept bustling in with more food and drink.  The hall wasn’t filled; if one wanted to eat without company at hand, it was easy enough. 

Many did; the local wizards might be attached to the Keep and its defense, but they weren’t precisely welcomed with open arms.  They were more of a grim necessity.  It was still the most wizards I’d ever seen in one place.  Altogether, there were six, not counting myself.

One table, though, was reserved for the local contingent of a dozen priests.  In conversation, I learned the Duke had refused any exceptions to the rule of the common meal; the priests could eat with the rest of us or go hungry.  I gathered he didn’t have much tolerance for either priests or wizards.  Either that, or he wanted to make a point about comparative ranks.  Wizards and priests might qualify as
de facto
officers, but they were staff officers, not line officers.

At one end of the hall was a huge fireplace, already ablaze.  A few scattered braziers at the other end helped even out the heating.  Light was provided by large oil lamp chandeliers of cast iron, suspended from pulleys mounted on the cobwebbed beams above.  It looked like a fire hazard to me.

The conversation was about the viksagi.  They were apparently formidable opponents.  I also gathered they didn’t have much in the way of strategy—an all-out charge to hack down their enemies was about the limits of it.  They could build siege engines—rams and catapults—but not much else.  They were terrible at using them.  No patience.

But the thing I found most interesting was they weren’t fighting a winter war.  They were fighting an
ongoing
war.  The northmen kept coming back, unpredictably, week by week and month by month.  They’d been doing it for over a century, but there had been a long lull recently.  Most seemed to think it was the calm before a storm.  Others were more optimistic.

“Perhaps we are running out of them; they keep coming to be killed,” one pointed out.

“No danger of
that,
” another opined.  “They grow more numerous, not less.  Last year was a greater wave of them than ever before.”

“So where do they all come from?” another wanted to know.

“Ha.  I’d like to know, myself.  Then we could ride out and butcher them like the beasts they are.”

“Surely, someone has tried to find out?” asked another voice.  I got the impression I wasn’t the only newbie here.

“How might that come to be?  Shall I ask one?”

“Surely.  But do
you
speak their tongue?  I do not,” interjected some wit. There was some chuckling at that.

Another added, “I’m sure you don’t, Reufeld; you do well enough to use your tongue with
our
language!” which got considerably greater laughter.  Reufeld took it well, apparently some sort of inside joke, and smiled without humor.

“Besides, they never surrender; they die before they give up.  They are mad,” he finished.

I agreed for the sake of form and kept my thoughts to myself.  It wouldn’t do to stand out when I’d just arrived.

Besides, I really didn’t want to attract attention from the head table, where the ranking officers were seated.  His Grace, the Duke Ganelon Northreach, of the duchy of the same name, sat to table as the general of our army; he was a squat, powerful man, and one could see he had all the leadership qualities—sharp eyes, square jaw, powerful voice, and a strong presence.  He looked competent and shrewd and very, very dangerous.  He didn’t bother me in the slightest.

Peldar was seated at his right hand.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9
TH

I
found myself fairly cheerful in that my monastic little cell did not have a window.  The whole place was designed as a fortress, so windows were pretty scarce in general.  It made sunset much simpler. 

Once that was out of the way, I got into more comfortable clothes—dark breeches, a grey tunic, a black vest, and a heavy green cloak—and headed down to town.  I wore Firebrand, but I also carried a new staff.  Not for the first time, I wondered if my first one was washed ashore somewhere.  It’s not that I really need a staff, but… well… that one had been a gift, and I hate losing gifts.

Thinking such thoughts, I went out to town.  It wasn’t long before I found what I wanted; she was dressed for cold weather, but she was also loitering out-of-doors and smiling at all the passers-by.  She even smiled at me.  Her smile grew as I approached her.

“Evenin’, lordship.  Care for a bit o’the ride astride?” she asked.  I’d never heard it put quite that way, but the metaphor was apparently trans-universal.

“Actually, I’m looking for someone.”

She
dimpled.
  “Found someone ye have, my sweet,” she answered, taking my arm.  “And what will you be doin’ with her?”

I decided to go with her conversational gambit, as well as the tugging on my arm.  We walked along and I replied, “Seeking out the ladies who’ve some troubles.  I’m a wizard, you see, and I have it in mind to… undo what men may have done.”

She looked thoughtful, but kept walking.  “There are a few as would be grateful not to be havin’ another brat,” she admitted.  “Not all o’them women, neither.”

“I had more in mind, ah, the pox, for example.  But I can keep a woman from catching a child just as easily.”

We turned along another muddy lane and moved down it, heading toward a sizable and well-lit establishment.  It looked like ramshackle tavern, but the painted sign out front clearly indicated more than just drinks were on the menu.  And, because I was paying attention to her and our destination and my plans, I didn’t pay any mind to the two men coming toward us along the lane.  As they passed us, my new friend greeted them with an airy, “Evenin’ dearie,” and on they went.

And immediately turned behind us.  I didn’t see that, but the sudden shifting of her aura told me she was suddenly nervous, a little frightened, and a
lot
excited.

I had time to wonder,
What the hell?
before one of them brought a cudgel down on my head.

He hadn’t struck hard enough to break the cudgel; it was a stout stick.  But any human being would have dropped, either unconscious or dead.  I staggered forward, off-balance and seeing stars for a moment, then my head cleared as the crack in my skull knit back together, itching.

“Hsst!  Fool!” said one to the other, and they rushed me.  I continued to stagger forward for a few more paces before I turned, hands rising, expecting them to club me again.  They did try.  I saw the cudgels coming at me and I caught them, one in each hand.  I twisted and jerked; suddenly, I was holding the clubs and the thugs were unarmed.

They were thugs, yes, but not stupid enough to keep trying after that.  They took to their heels as though Hell were after them—and I might have been, except for the woman.  She was pale and shaking and about ready to collapse right there.  I think it was the first time their little plan had ever gone wrong.

I tossed the clubs aside and moved to stand beside her.  She looked about ready to faint.  I offered my arm.

“Well, that takes care of those brigands.  You were saying about the ladies who might need my services?”

She rallied magnificently, with all the cunning and guile of a streetwalker; she took my arm and led me into the front door of the establishment.  I was ready to have a major throwdown when she led me inside, but the rough stuff stayed outside.  Instead, I was introduced to a smiling fat man whom I instantly despised.

He wasn’t fat, precisely; just a touch overweight.  He had a double chin, but no jowls.  Under the fat was a hardness, a meanness that would be at home in the Thing I had killed when I had a workroom.  It was worse in a human being, because he had a soul to give it contrast.  At least the Thing had been what it was because… well… that’s what it was.  He didn’t have that excuse.

“And what’re ye bringin’ me here, Lana-me-girl?” he asked, eyeing me.  “Wants a bit of a multitude, p’raps?”

“Says he can be of service,” she said, almost tittering.  “Fixes things like the pox and whatnot.”

“Oh, so it’s
service
he wants to give, is it?” he asked, grinning broadly.  He needed to brush his teeth.  With acid.  But he wiped a hand on his apron—

I’m sorry; the downstairs portion of the building was largely a tavern.  It served mead and ale, hard spirits and really cheap wine.  Upstairs, it also served a need that any detached military post is going to have.  The fat man was the owner and the equivalent of a bartender.  From the smell of unwashed bodies, I wasn’t sure I wanted to breathe inside, much less touch anything.  His hand included.

—and he held it out to clasp mine.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, enunciating carefully as I clasped forearms with him.  He had a dagger in his sleeve; I didn’t.  Neither of us made mention of either fact.

“Charmed, I’m sure.  You may have noticed I am a wizard,” I offered, gesturing with my staff.

“Mayhap,” he agreed.  “And you’ll want to be lookin’ over the girls what got the pox and the blossoms and the rest, aye?  And maybe one or two that’s late to bleed, and maybe with child?”

“Perhaps, yes.  I believe I can be of some assistance.”

He laughed again.  “It takes more than a big stick to be a wizard,” he chuckled, and waved a hand; three large men came over to stand nearby.  One had a hand on his dagger.  “I’ve had this blazer run on me afore, lad.  Now get yourself out into the snow like a good sojer and come back when you’ve a coin or two, eh?”

Lana was trying to give him a very subtle ixnay on the bum’s rush, but he was keeping his eyes on me.  I worried him instantly because I smiled.

“Why, you don’t believe I’m a wizard!” I accused.

“Aye, you’ve that right.  What wizard would be down
here?
And with a sword, no less.  Ha!  You’re like another or two; look ’em over, wave yer hands, find one that’s likely already with child, use her for a bit, then off you go and nothing to show for it.”  He gestured to the trio.

I gestured and grabbed with my mind; the bouncer with the dagger in hand looked shocked when the blade apparently yanked itself from his grip and flew into mine.  It would never have worked if he’d been ready for it.

“Then watch!” I cried.  I placed my hand on his countertop, palm down, and drove the dagger down through it, nailing my own hand to the wood.  No blood flowed, but it hurt.  Hell yes, it hurt.  But the major hurt of such a wound is the trauma of knowing you’re
hurt.
  I knew I’d be better almost as soon as the blade came out.  So it was a lot easier to endure, and it made a really powerful impression.

“Now, just to show there’s no trick,
you
take it out,” I said, keeping my eyes locked with his.  There was a pause for a beat, two beats, three… and he finally looked down at my hand.  His eyes widened.  And, gently, gingerly, he tugged on the hilt of the dagger.  Then more forcefully.  At last, he used both hands and yanked it out.

I closed my hand, made a fist, flexed it—and there was no hole to be seen.

“I’m a wizard, thank you, and I can heal your girls.  You can charge more for clean merchandise, and I can make a coin or two myself.  It’s honest work and no one else will touch it, am I right?”

He nodded, speechless.  I think it might have been the first time in his life. 
That
was a good feeling.

Killing off a disease isn’t that hard.  Just find the organism responsible, weave tendrils of power into a fine-meshed net, and scoop through someone to kill anything that matched that organism.  Bacteria, viruses, you name it; it died suddenly and painlessly and a literally microscopic amount of vitality came to me.

As for contraception, that was a little harder.  I had each girl bring me a bracelet or ring or other thing of hers; these things I enspelled for them.  While they lasted, the spell on each girl would find and kill a quickened egg before it could be turned into a zygote.  Just because I’m paranoid, I made sure the spell’s effect inside their bodies was restricted to the womb; I’d hate to make a mistake of a permanent nature.  The spell
shouldn’t
affect unfertilized eggs… but I wasn’t taking chances.

I swear, I never thought I’d be able to make a living because I passed high-school biology.

By midnight, every girl in the house was clean as new-fallen snow, even if their bodies didn’t quite show it yet.  But that wasn’t good enough for the Squire—or so the fat man called himself, and everyone else did too.  Oh no.  He had to be able to see the changes.  So I went ahead and burned a little more power to encourage rapid healing.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night.   One silver bit for each girl, one silver bit for each charm.  If they aren’t all completely without stain when I return, I’ll kill and eat the girl that isn’t,” I promised.

I think it took him aback that I would just walk away after laboring for a couple of hours—and all without so much as asking a girl to disrobe.  I hadn’t even interrupted the flow of customers noticeably.

On the other hand, it might be best to convince him I was serious.

I pointed at the fireplace in the middle of the room; chemical reactions multiplied and a geyser of flame roared up through the chimney.  A wave of heat rolled out from the hearth and the whole common room warmed by a couple of degrees.

“You’ll have the money ready, just in case I’ve told you the truth?” I asked.

“Aye, that I will,” he replied, eyeing the ember-filled fireplace and the soot-covered kettles, now boiling.  “And I’ll thank you not to be burning my inn down, master wizard.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “You will.”

I spent most of the rest of the night going over the keep and town, just to get a better feel for the place.  I did detour out into the countryside a bit—it was about time to kill something for the horned hunter again, and I like to keep ahead.  I know I haven’t mentioned doing it, but it’s really not much to mention.  I’m a predator, and I’m good at it.  But he notes it, every time, and I can
tell
.  It’s one promise I’ll have
no
trouble remembering to keep, no matter how easy it is.

I also took a liberty or two with the occasional mugger in the night; I found the ladies had not yet let it be known I was not to be touched.  Or the Squire hadn’t.  Perhaps he even encouraged them; if I didn’t make it back tomorrow night, he could keep the money.

I didn’t kill any of them, but a few would wake up tired, and with a headache.  Fortunately, they generally came in twos, so they could keep each other warm when wrapped up in their cloaks.  With luck, they wouldn’t freeze—I didn’t take that much blood from any of them, and always made sure to drink after they were napping.  Also, I drank from cuts, rather than leave fang marks.

Then
I took a closer look at the keep.

I can’t say I disliked the keep; it was what it was:  A fortress meant to be the rock upon which invading hordes would break.  The bridge would be a killing ground, then the courtyard, then any scattered remnants that made it past those would find a small army waiting for the disorganized mob.  The guards on the gates were at least awake, and a beacon was at the top of the keep, to be lit in case the keep was lost. 

It would work.  It
had
worked, apparently for a century or so.

Which meant it was due for a change.  I have the feeling the viksagi calm heralds a major storm. 

Stuff like this keeps
happening
around me.  Why couldn’t I have a quiet life in the country, studying my books, drinking my cattle, loving my wife?  Is that too much to ask?

I miss Sasha.  I miss Tamara.  I miss Shada.  I wonder where they are now?

Well, in two out of three cases, I should be able to find out.

It was almost dawn when I took out my crystal ball.  I wasn’t fool enough to try to see Sasha; necromancy isn’t something you do on a moment’s notice—or at all, if it can be avoided.  Besides, the place where she died is a long way off in an odd direction.

Shada was another matter; I looked for her. 

She was with a bunch of wagons.  There were many people, brightly-garbed, and it seemed to be a caravan of some sort.  She was traveling with a
gata,
and that made me… I felt better, lighter, with a loss of a tension I hadn’t known I had.  Or mostly; when she smiled, it was with her mouth but not her eyes.  She seemed almost to look at me before the vision faded.

Tamara I saw in her house, knitting and whistling, immensely happy.  I felt warmed and cheered by that prospect; it was good to know she was well.  More than well; she fairly glowed with life and radiant beauty.  I think I realized at that moment I could fall in love with her.  Maybe I have, a little bit.