Cobweb Empire (25 page)

“
Strike!”

Many of the musketeers corps, unable to turn
the muskets upon themselves due to length of nozzle, discharged
their long weapons into each other, and gunfire came in slow grim
bursts, measured like pops, as they received the steel balls into
their chests.

“
Fire!”

Mother of God, help us all.

It took no more than a quarter of an hour to
accomplish the deed.

The Sovereign sat watching them, motionless
and serene. Behind her, little Graccia cowered, trembling, holding
her white-knuckled hands against her mouth, silent tears streaming
down her face.

At last, Trova Square contained only an army
of the dead.

Rumanar Avalais, Sovereign of the Domain,
lifted her gloved hand and spoke in her ringing voice, painted with
pomegranate tongues of invisible fire, which was now all in the
mind.

“Trovadii! You are mine now, unto Eternity!
And now we march! Our way lies north!”

A blast of trumpets sounded, chill and
pristine, powered by no living breath. Everywhere around the square
it was picked up by echoes and amplified by powerful acoustics, and
new trumpet blasts flared from the remote flanks. Next came the
beat of drums, the only heartbeat to serve them all. And then, like
a giant beast awaking, a creaking arose . . . the
sound of metal striking metal . . . the soft squish
of thick pomegranate-hued liquid upon the once-mauve
cobblestones. . . .

There was no other sound.

Trovadii were on the move.

Chapter
12

P
ercy trembled in
the embrace of a man whom she knew as the black knight, a man whose
nude upper body surrounded her in a blanket of fiery warmth. He was
crushing her between his muscular arms and his scalding chest,
bronze and copper skin, smooth to the touch and hard underneath,
covered with a bristling of fine hairs.

Percy could not breathe. She was
constricted, but not enough to be so breathless. Rather, it was the
reality of his
presence
, the strange proximity, the
overwhelming warmth of him, pressed full body against all parts of
her, that made her want to jump out of her own skin and at the same
time to stay in place and just
dissolve
.

And then, his
voice. . . .

“Percy . . .” he had spoken
harshly, strangely, while pressed so hard and warm against her, his
jaw prickling her neck.

“I am warm now,” she told him in a soft
voice, as if it made any sense, then remembered that yes, it was
supposed to make sense; that she had been cold as ice, emptied of
reason, falling in and out of consciousness as they rode, not even
remotely clear on where they were now—and her mind had been tolling
with all the bells in the world after the dark killing power had
receded—

And yet, all she could think
now
was
that she was warm—so warm! And he was all around her, and he was
burning her—or she was melting, soft and malleable and non-existent
in the circle of his body.

However, the next instant, before she could
squirm or press her hands against his chest yet again because
she did not know what to do with herself
, with her body or
with her hands, and where to place them—the next instant Beltain
suddenly released her.

With a strange grunting sound he sharply
moved away, making the straw mattress buckle underneath his greater
weight. And he lay on his back momentarily, then with a sharp
movement got up and backed away from her, wearing only his lower
body woolens.

Still trembling, this time with some
confusion, she was suddenly presented with the sight of his
beautifully shaped upper body—torso bruised in places, but muscular
and overwhelming with its comely proportions. Comely, yes—because
the few times that she had seen a man’s bare chest in Oarclaven
during summer fieldwork, and could compare, she knew
this
one was the most well-fashioned. He stood before the bed,
silhouetted in part against the ruddy light of the fireplace that
played along the masculine planes and concavities of his chest and
abdomen.

“Forgive me,
Persephone . . .” he said in a newly remote and very
cold voice. His expression was equally cold and indeed blank, as he
then leaned forward again, and took hold of the black velvet cloak
that had served as a blanket for them, and pulled it back up and
around Percy, adjusting it with his large capable hands around her
neck, and pulling the fabric over her still somewhat cool bare
feet.

“You are indeed better now,” he added. “I
was unsure what was to be done, and I am sorry if I had
imposed—upon you. But now, I will find us something to drink.”

“Thank you . . .” she said
again, not knowing what else to say, and holding the velvet folds
of the cloak around her to cover her ugly old cotton
nightshirt.

As if he hadn’t seen it already.

“Rest now,” he added. “And I will find water
to heat. A kettle maybe—” And he turned and went to look around the
room near the pantry. There was indeed a small pot of sorts, and he
took it up and then headed directly for the door.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, pausing just for
a moment. “I will be just outside. Now, rest!”

And she watched him, her pulse still racing
in her temples, her body entirely warm—more warm that she had any
right to be—and yet groggy now, and filled with something that was
either a general ache or the remainder of churning power. And it
occurred to Percy that, as he exited outside, he wore no shirt on
his upper body—nothing at all—and yet he did not appear to feel the
blast of cold that came at him as he opened the door to the winter
night.

B
eltain returned
shortly, carrying a pot filled with snow. It had started to snow
outside, coming down thick and fast, and the wind turned the
flurries into spinning funnels. Snowflakes had sprinkled with
whiteness the tops of his shoulders and the dark brown, lightly
curling hair on his head, and some had caught lightly against his
fine chest hairs in crystalline points that started to melt
immediately in the warmth inside.

He shook his head of hair off lightly, swept
hands against his chest with absentminded motions, not appearing to
be bothered by the cold, and put the pot on the fire to melt and
boil. Then he found his linen undershirt and put it on, no doubt
covering himself against her gaze.

Percy continued to stare at him.

“Well,” he said. “It is a good thing I found
this house to shelter for the night. We could not have ridden
through this snow. How do you feel?”

“I am fine, thank you, My Lord.”

He turned away and for the next few moments
fumbled looking around at the pantry shelves. “Nothing to eat here.
No tea, not even bark scrapings. Just a couple of rotten potatoes
and turnips on the bottom of the sack, unfit for the pig
trough.”

“I am not hungry.”

He looked around at her, scraped the stubble
of his jaw with his hand. “After what you went through, you need to
eat, and drink well.”

“Hot water is plenty.”

He shook his head.

“Truly, My Lord,” she said. “Whatever has
happened since I made the dead fall, I am well now. It has
passed.”

It occurred to her that indeed her recovery
this time had been much faster than the previous time—when she put
to rest only three soldiers on the road and nearly fainted.

“So, Percy, Death’s Champion, what exactly
can you do?” He stood, looking at her with very serious eyes,
having forgotten for the moment the search for something edible.
“You managed to take out dozens, nay, at least a hundred men as we
rode, and you did not touch
any
of them!”

“I did touch one,” she corrected. “He tried
to pull me down, and his touch awakened the power. I could then
feel them all. . . .”

“Hm-m-m. . . . Then why did
you not put the whole battlefield to rest?” he asked musingly.

“I—” She was somewhat taken aback by the
audacity of his question.

“Well,
could
you have?” he persisted.
“Could you have slain them all?”

“Yes . . . I think. Only, it
would have been—”

She did not know how to answer. She could
not tell him she was afraid of losing herself entirely to the
power, of dissolving into the dark storm. . . .

Most of all, she could not tell him that she
did not know if it would destroy her.

“Next time,” he said with a ruthless
chuckle, “don’t bother sparing anyone. They are gone already, might
as well send them along to the next world where they belong. Just
think, you could have single-handedly taken care of the siege of
Letheburg.”

“I felt—your father,” she said suddenly.
“Your father, the Duke, his death. I touched it—him.”

Beltain stopped laughing.

“You should have taken them all,” he said in
a voice hard as flint. And turning his back to her, he returned to
the fire to stare at the boiling water.

“Next time . . .” she
whispered in his wake. “Next time, I will.”

T
he water boiled
and they drank it plain from two wooden cups he found in the
corner. They could hear the wind howling outside, a fierce storm.
The fire in the hearth blazed higher after he added another log and
twigs. The air in the room was almost pleasantly warm.

“I am sorry, but I need to use the
chamberpot,” she said awkwardly, seated on the bed, with her feet
under his velvet cloak.

“Call me when you are done.” Without looking
at her, he got up from the bench where he had been sitting and
immediately headed outside in only his shirt.

“My Lord! Will you not freeze?”

“Not unless you take too long.” His answer
came in a voice ruefully edged with humor. Not since she had
mentioned his father had he smiled. Now was the first time.

Feeling only slightly dizzy as she got up,
and remarkably well recovered, all things considered, Percy rushed
to take care of nature’s business. She hid away the chamberpot
again, arose and stood very still for a moment to let a minor
headrush pass, then went barefoot to the door and opened it to the
storm and called out for him.

Beltain returned immediately, blowing snow
flurries and wind in with him.

“Get into bed,” he said, glancing only once
at her, his gaze purposefully averted from her shape.

Percy stared at him, shivering in her
nightshirt.

“Will you not take the bed, My Lord?” she
said. “Where will you sleep? You are larger than me.”

“No,” he said.

“Don’t be a ninny, Sir Kni—My Lord,” she
began speaking, then put the back of her hand against her
mouth.

“Did you just call me a ninny, girl?”

Percy stared at him, with very wide
eyes.

“That’s it, get into bed this instant! Or I
will thrash you as I once promised!”

“Hah! You can
try!
” And suddenly she
squealed, and panicked, and rushed like a big terrified horse, and
threw herself on the mattress, while gulping for air with nervous
giggles. She clutched the black cloak and dragged it against
herself and cowered in the corner, still giggling and gasping
helplessly in what was obviously a crazed fit—similar to the times
when she had played with her two sisters upon occasion and they
squealed and got out of control—except that now she was terrified,
acutely self-aware, and shocked at her own ridiculous response.

“Holy Lord in Heaven!” he said, and stood
over her, shaking his head. A smile hovered around the corners of
his mouth. He stilled momentarily, and his slate-blue eyes
glittered black in the red firelight. They were so intense
suddenly, so focused, as he looked at her.

“What a strange little wench you are, Percy
Ayren,” he said after a long pause, and looked away. “Enough of
this maudlin nonsense, you need to get some sleep. And I do, too.
We have a long road ahead of us tomorrow.”

“What about the bed?” she whispered.

“Don’t worry about the bed,” he replied.
“I’ve slept outside under the trees and worse.”

“But there is plenty of room for both of us!
Whole village families could fit in this one bed, and probably
have!” she insisted.

“But we are not a
family. . . .” His voice came softly. With his back
to her he proceeded to arrange his armor and clothing on the beaten
floor, then pulled on his thick woolen gambeson back over his
undershirt, and easily lay down on the floor, with a small sack
under his head for a pillow.

And then he turned away from her, lying on
his side to face the fire.

“Good night, Percy.”

“Good night, My Lord,” she whispered, her
mind in a strange soft turmoil.

For long moments she watched his reposing
silhouette against the flames.

And then she slept.

P
ercy awoke at dawn
to a profound silence. The pallor seeping from the cracks in the
shutters and under the door was a harbinger of a white winter
world. The storm had passed and left in its wake a rare
serenity.

The knight was awake, and was quietly adding
new logs to the fire in the hearth, and indeed its gentle rising
crackle was the only sound to intrude upon the silence.

She noticed he was fully dressed already,
with his boots and leg pieces on, and the chain mail hauberk in
place. He must have made trips outside without her knowing it,
because there were a few more logs near the hearth than before.

She shuddered, because despite the relative
warmth in the room, she was chilled, and his fine black cloak she
had been using as a blanket was hardly adequate protection over a
nightshirt alone. Her dress, winter shoes, socks and stockings were
drying near the fire, for which she was grateful. But it was
awfully embarrassing to consider that he had to handle them on her
behalf—the whole poor threadbare smelly lot of them. The
realization of it made Percy’s cheeks flame.