The Tears of the Sun (35 page)

The squires knuckled their foreheads and went in search of Sir Thierry's provosts and directions to the campgrounds. Guelf found Stanyon a block away, after pushing his way through streets that were a mass of troops and horses and vehicles almost to the edge of the castle moat; the little town was so insignificant it didn't even have a wall, and the few locals were like chips on a torrent. One of the warehouses was being used as a field hospital. As he walked into its lantern-lit dimness there was a heavy smell of spoiled blood from the bandages heaped in corners, heat, sweat, pain and disinfectant. Healers from half a dozen of the allied powers were sorting and doing emergency surgery on a set of bloodstained tables. A line of volunteers stood ready to lie down next to the injured and provide transfusions.

Odo slitted his eyes to keep out as much as he could. Even Guelf gulped a little. He was well used to the butcher-shop horrors that happened when men hacked and stabbed with edged weapons, but there was something chilling about this in an entirely different way. Moans and shrieks sounded every now and then, not often enough to be disregarded, so that every new one hit you fresh.

The seven wounded from Gervais who'd survived and three bodies of those who'd died here were laid together. Father Stanyon and a Mackenzie medic were standing toe to toe over one unconscious figure. The kilted clanswoman was slight but bristling, her brown braid swinging as she shook her head emphatically.

“And what part of
no
is it that's too complicated for you to be understanding the now, you cowan blockhead?” she shouted in a Mackenzie lilt, arms windmilling the way they did.

“Here's my Lord, talk to
him
, pagan bitch!” the priest shouted back.

Guelf grunted; he felt as if his eyes had been taken out and the backs sanded, then the sockets dusted with hot ash before they were replaced. He glared, but neither quailed.

“Out,” he snarled, and turned on his heel. “Now!”

Outside, Father Stanyon spoke in an angry, even tone. “She dosed that man we picked up with laudanum. Dosed him heavily, forced it suddenly down his throat.”

Guelf frowned. “So?” he asked.

Even he knew that was standard if you didn't want to inject a wounded man with morphine, which was expensive even for military use and had to be saved for the most urgent cases. Ones who were unconscious or who couldn't keep an oral medication down.

The Mackenzie medic nodded at him. “Not going to apologize, my Lord. Both the Father and I agree, the spalpeen isn't actually one of your Gervais men.”

Baffled, Guelf's stubbled face swung back and forth. “He isn't?”

“No.” Father Stanyon hesitated. “He's dressed in the bloodstained clothing of one of ours, however. Blood all over the right kidney.”

Guelf growled. That was the mark of an assassin; a knife in the kidney was the fastest and quietest way to kill quickly. There was a whole knot of big blood vessels there, and if you stuck the blade deep, in just the right place, and twisted sharply, unconsciousness followed almost instantly. It was a lot easier and less obviously messy than slitting a throat too, if you left the knife in for a moment.

“Killed one of ours to sneak in one of their spies?” he grated.

The Mackenzie nodded briskly, removing the surgical mask that had fallen around her neck over the thin golden torc.

“Yes. 'Twould be my guess, do you see, that he threw himself down looking all wounded and hurt to be carried in, planning to get up when nobody was looking in the hurry and chaos. Blood on clothing is not the most uncommon of things about here, I'm observing. It's the Mother's own luck that I happened to do a quick triage check; and there the spalpeen's back was, not sliced or cut or stabbed at all. So I grabbed the creature's nose and poured the dose down his throat.”

Guelf felt like a parrot lived in his brain; or that an ax had cut it in half. One side of it was reacting with an instinctive rage. The other . . .

“Right. Father Stanyon, my thanks for defending our interests and referring this decision to me. I'll take the advice of our ally. Who should take charge of the prisoner, witch?”

The Mackenzie gestured to the men standing by. Both of them were notably hard-faced, and the clothes under their armor were a uniform brown. Scratches and dings and a spray of something reddish-brown dried across one didn't disguise the snarling face-on bear's head.

“Those are a couple of Larsdalen men; they came with us. They'll get the prisoner to the Grand Constable or Lady Juniper, if I ask. Lady d 'Ath is with Odell west of here, at Biggs Junction; our Chief is at Dun Juniper.
Mac an donais!
Just get the creature out of here, and fast would be best. He
smells
, and in more ways than one.”

Guelf bowed, a short gesture. “He's all yours, gentlemen; take him to the Grand Constable and report all you've heard. Just give me back the clothes; I hope to identify the man he killed. One more notch on the blade.”

“Come, Odo, we need to say good-bye to Terry and check on Chezzy.”

Guelf sighed gently as he turned away. If the man had been his contact, it was a good thing the Mackenzie had intervened. Good in the short term, at least. A bubble of fear was starting to burn down under his breastbone; fear worse than a spear point coming for his face.

The Mackenzie nodded. “I want him out and harmless. We've been warned that the Cutters sometimes possess powers dangerous to ordinary folk, so.”

Father Stanyon crossed himself and murmured a prayer.

The Mackenzie gave him a sardonic look. “We'll hog-tie him and send him on to the Grand Constable . . . but he goes drugged. I know more about magic than you do. By definition. And the first and the last and the heart of it is paying attention.”

Guelf looked at Father Stanyon.

 

“Sir Guelf . . .”

Guelf Mortimer began to start up from his bedroll and draw his sword where it lay near him across his saddle, but forced himself to be still instead.

It was very dark, but the steel might be seen. He knew that voice: Alex Vinton, Odard's manservant. But there was nobody here, nobody at all.

There was just a hint of light on the rolling ground around him, starlight teasing with almost-sight.

Or maybe . . . maybe
they
don't talk. The Ascended Masters . . .

The whisper hung in the star-spangled dark. The moon hung low in the west, this late in the night; a few days past full. Guelf turned, thrashed a second, kicking off his blanket, and staggered up to his feet and away from the sleeping men, past the one sentry.

“Back in a minute,” he mumbled, fumbling with his trews.

“Aye, my lord,” murmured the sentry back.

The latrine was ten paces farther on and a new dark shadow was lying on the far side of the little ditch where the excess dirt had been piled up. The bright moonlight distorted expected shapes and humps.

“Sir Guelf?”

“Vinton?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Guelf controlled his anger. Yelling at the man was not going to help right now and would wake the men behind them. They were all Loiston Manor men, but you never could tell. Chenoweth had had words with all of them before they'd left.

“What news?”

“The Ascended Masters say you are to return to Gervais as fast as possible. A spy has found you and the Lady Mary out and we couldn't intercept either the spy or the dispatches. They've been in the hands of the Regency for several days, now.”

“What's happened with my damned nephew?”

An odd sound came from across the ditch. “Captured with the Princess by the CUT. I freed him; the fellowship freed her. The little nephilite whore sent the news to her bitch of a mother.”

“Does my nephew
know
?”

“Good question. You've been standing here too long. I'll meet you on the Woodburn Road after you've helped your sister burn the papers. That's the most important thing; those documents would tell the enemy too much.”

Strange,
he thought, letting a stream go into the stinking trench.
I'm really going to do that. I can't really tell
why
I'm going to do it, though
.

The thought floated away. There was a rustle and Vinton was gone. Guelf shrugged before making his way back to the men. He didn't lie down, but paced quietly near the sentry instead.

His mind was moving, thinking, planning, but the forepart of his brain refused to analyze it. Now and then he'd feel another surge of fear, as if he were floating over one of the waterfalls in gorge of the Columbia, weightless, rushing out into space and turning and turning with the rocks below, and then it would slip away again.

I must get back to Gervais,
Guelf thought and spat reflexively.
No, the longer but more sure route is my best bet.

Dawn came soon, touching the eastern horizon with a paler color. He grabbed one of the bicycles and spoke quietly to the sentry.

“I'm uneasy about our railroad team.
Something
woke me up. Tell Sergeant Gavin to carry on as planned and I'll rejoin you late tomorrow.”

“Sir Guelf, do you think you should? Alone?”

If anything was lacking to convince him that his cover had been ripped, this questioning of his orders was it.

“I'm not losing seven good men just because I'm too timid to follow up my instincts. Carry on.”

He wanted to snap, to yell, to roar at the impertinence of the man . . . But he didn't want to wake up Sergeant Gavin.

ARMY HQ
THE HIGH KING'S HOST
HORSE HEAVEN HILLS
(FORMERLY SOUTH-CENTRAL WASHINGTON)
HIGH KINGDOM OF MONTIVAL
(FORMERLY WESTERN NORTH AMERICA)
AUGUST 8, CHANGE YEAR 25/2023 AD
rack.

 

 

 

C
rack.
Huon Liu grunted as the shield buffeted into his, taking him at a wicked angle that threw the stress across his leg rather than punching straight back into his fighting crouch. He snarled and switched stance as fast as he could, trying not to stagger, giving ground and bringing the shield up. The armored figure rushed at him with a movement as smooth as oil, nothing to see above the shield save the long vision slit in the curved visor. He was wearing an open-faced sallet himself, but he'd been maneuvered until the lowering sun was making him squint.

Perhaps if he tried a looping flourish cut and—

Crack
and his sword struck against the shield, jarring his right hand and arm. It pushed in, binding and hampering his sword-arm.

The other sword lunged towards his face. He brought his shield up and around and ducked his head, desperately trying not to block his own vision. The other's shield twitched out to block his cut at the leg then darted in to lock its edge under the rim of his and lever it aside.

Another quick pivot, and the blunt tip of the wooden practice sword struck the back of his thigh with paralyzing force. Huon gave an involuntary grunt of pain and went down on one knee, desperately propping the point of his shield on the ground and against his shoulder, whipping his padded oak sword back.

The High Queen stepped back and used the edge of her shield to knock her visor up. Her face was red and streaming with sweat, but she grinned at Huon.

“Not bad, youngster. And you don't give up, which is the essential thing. If they cut off your arms and your legs, your last words should be:
Come back
,
you coward, I'll
bite
you to death!
But you're still thinking too much while you're doing. Just throw the lever and let it
happen
. Disarm me, you two.”

Huon levered himself back to his feet and racked the battered practice weapons with the others; nobody in the Household slacked off. Even the Queen spent at least two hours a day at it, and she had enough other work to choke a horse. There was no choice; if you lost your edge you were easy meat in a fight.

He was wearing the gear he'd picked up in Portland; a brigantine of small steel plates riveted between two layers of leather on his torso, plate vambraces and greaves, a mail camail for neck and shoulders and rows of steel splints on leather for his thighs and upper arms. It was good protection by skilled armorers, and even with the letter of credit he hadn't
quite
dared to order a suit of plate that he'd outgrow in a year or less with the prospect of doing it all again several times before he reached his full height. He wasn't going to be towering, but his hands and feet indicated he'd be adding inches yet.