I Know Not (The Story of Fox Crow) (10 page)

      And I left him there. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but by the time we left the
castra
O’Conner was dead. He had managed to make it three paces toward his barracks. A feat of endurance. His noble ancestors should be proud, really. The soldiers had managed to knock loose several of the pegs on the door on this side, but all that escaped was thick, black smoke. The hammering had stopped. I had a flash of another place, burned to the ground, but the Dark Thing swept it away like a gambler seizes a pot. I shook my head.

      When I removed the nails from the door and released the carriage party, they cast me looks that could only be described as awed. Then they moved out into the open air they saw the burning building, the bodies of the watchmen, and the disemboweled corpse of the Captain, and it changed into something far different. For my part I claimed some of O’Conner’s more rugged clothes and tossed his quarters for anything valuable. I secreted another bag of coins on my person, and was pleased to find O’Conner had gone to the trouble of scavenging a barbarian’s crude scabbard for the Angel. It was two hands too short, but its iron throat made it a perfect stopgap measure. I slid the Angel home, wincing when it bottomed out. Then I filled my time alone, strolling around the perimeter of the
castra
as the Lady packed, and the boys prepared the carriage.

      Finally, it was too cold to delay any longer. I returned to our prison, a wet bundle of white in my hands. Aelia started when she saw me, and Gelia spun and placed herself between us. I could not suppress a scowl as I crossed to my fox cloak and collected it from the floor. It was then the Lady’s voice, so strong but brittle, set a hand on my shoulder, “Crow. Where did you…? How did you…?”

      I cast her a barbed glance over my shoulder, “If you did not think I would succeed, or if you were afraid I could, perhaps you should not have sent me at all, Lady.”

      She accepted the rebuke head–on, taking it into her heart and secreting it there as holy writ. She drew herself up as full understanding came to her. She nodded, and said something unexpected, “Accept my apologies.”

      Unexpected, because she truly meant it. I nodded in lieu of a bow and began to walk out as she turned back to her packing. I paused by the door only long enough to shove the Priestesses’ white cloak into her wrinkled hands. “My thanks, Holy Sister.”

      I did not make another step before she whispered, “Oh, Dear Merciful Lady.”

      I turned to see her holding the cloak by the shoulders, spreading the sides out for inspection. I looked at the back of it, slightly sooty but otherwise unharmed, and wondered if she was just complaining about my smell. Then she turned it round.

      I could see the outer surface, the one that I had worn closest to my skin, was stained so badly it had obliterated the holy symbol of her order. It was not with dirt or blood, but with a dark foulness that had no name. It twisted in spikes and whirls that tempted the eye to follow them into madness, it formed two symbols, superimposed upon on one another as they were on my very soul. The spread wings of a raven, and piercing it in the heart was the all seeing eye.

      The Priestess looked at it, and then at me, terror etched in every crease of her skin.

      “Gelia?” Quickly but subtly, the old woman bundled the stain to the inside of the cloak and turned from me, a slightly worried but loving look chiseled onto her features. I retreated, my head swimming with unknowns so deep and dangerous my eyes hurt just from the pressure of them. I ran to a hidden corner of the
castra
like an animal, throwing myself into a dark niche as the pressure built and built, longingly tonguing up and down my back and giggling as I shuddered at what was to come.

      And then it hit, brutal and wild, a pain that erased the ground, the cold, and even the sky above. There was only agony from the center of my back, echoing into the eternity of a few minutes. And then, like magic, it was gone. If there was a dream, I didn’t remember it. Still the vague unease of undeserved punishment remained.

      Without further order, consensus, or even a single word, we left the
castra
. I am certain Godwin was the one who had re–rigged the traces and decided to hook up the two extra workhorses to the carriage. It gave us more speed, and that much more chance to reach Carolaughan alive.

      Had I been less tired, I would have remembered to question why the road so perilous, why the princess so insistent, why the noble O’Conner so familiar with her. But I was tired, and drained by the merciless pains along my spine. The others were no better off. As we left the place though the gates, there was a pall on the party. Before it had been bandits, fae, and possibly barbarians, but now we had killed Norians, Kingsmen like ourselves: More daring, more dangerous, the King’s soldiers. Someone would come looking for them, and would find only bodies.

      The true measure of our peril had never been made so real.

8   

A Black Winter Wind

The winner will declare the bloodi- est of battlefields a honorable victory. King Ryan was said to be a vicious tactician without a shred of mercy, but the songs of his battles are full of honor and glory. The reason is that it is hard to begrudge breath. By midday, the shocked disgust at the means of their escape had faded. Miller even asked for a blow by blow account until Gelia came by and whipped him in the back of his neck with a leather thong as if he were a schoolboy. He howled like a scalded cat, but nobody dared laugh because of the look on her face. When we continued, I could feel two pair of eyes on me from the carriage, one warm and one cold.

      By my reckoning it was five more days ‘till Carolaughan. Aelia made comfortable conversation with me while Gelia made uncomfortable silence. Theo kept up a fine banter but for the times when it was my turn to tell a story, for I had none to give, that space still held by the miserly Fog. Winter had shaken the sleep from his eyes to descend upon the lands of Men, seeking to make up for lost time with very real hostility. The world sparkled almost painfully, with every trunk, branch, twig, leaf, or needle encased in thick globs of cold glass. Our steps crunched, and the carriage wheels set up a dull roar that threatened to hide the approach of anything smaller than a rampaging wyvern.

      I had not slept all night, and the strain of escape, murder, and revenge had drained me. I began sending the boys ahead, one at a time on O’Conner’s horse, finally letting them take the lead. They were so eager, so desperate for approval, that they never seemed to realize I was doing them no favors. If someone was going to die, it would certainly be them first. My heart started to paint in the lead frames of these hollow–youths with hopes and dreams, bad breath and dirty jokes, quirks and foibles. Still I had to risk them, because I was becoming fatigued to the point of uselessness. Worse, the weaker my mental state, the more I began to walk through imaginary murders of my companions. I would shake myself after each ersatz killing, so sure that I could shut my eyes hard enough to banish the demons, only for them to creep back and paint the world around me in dreamt violence and blood.

      Before noon, I found my boots wanted to slip more often. The light stabbed more cruelly at my eyes. I began to swim in the Fog at the back of my mind, sliding from second to second on pure inertia. Aelia made plain she wished to stop for a long lunch, and wished us to find a respectable spot.

     
Spoiled brat
,
first she says hurry and then
–My hackles froze, half-raised.

      The lady was staring at me with soft eyes, gaze lingering on me too long. Her true intent dawned upon me and I felt shame for the first time I could remember - not that it was a long time, but still I felt it was significant. I nodded thanks to her and was rewarded with a smile that could coax flowers to bloom from beneath the ice. Inside me something, long unused and mostly forgotten, stirred. A cold wind blew out of the fog and the alien warmth fluttered deeper inside me, hiding.

      I slept as others ate, and a long time besides. Still, our mission was urgent and the next morning I was shaken awake before I was completely ready. The boys would not give up another day lost with no practice, and so I trained them before they packed up the camp. The road, however, would soon show hostile intentions again.

      We, and by we I mean I, found disturbingly fresh signs that lots of men wearing hard traveling boots had been by. I was grateful to Aelia when she gave permission to take a smaller side road. It was longer, less civilized, but it would cut the chances of meeting an ambush greatly. It was likely that the extra horses would make up the time, but there was a bigger change of a felled tree that would take hours to clear before we could move on. We continued apace until nearing the next day’s dark, and then it became necessary to look for another place to bed down.

      I brought the boys in close so we could stop soon, but nothing convenient appeared. With no springs close to the road, nor signs of habitation, all traffic passed here quickly. The forest began to press in again, thick brush on either side that promised not to hide ambushes, but also provided no place to make camp. We went another mile, and then another. It seemed we had set upon a road that never ends, where every corner looked like the one before, and all the differences just made it seem all the more alike.

      I decided at the next clear space big enough to make any kind of camp we were going to stop. Then particles wafted to me on the breeze. They entered my nose, ricocheted inside my sinuses before being thrust into the deepest parts of my brain. It slapped aside the cobwebs in my head and wrenched my guts in a spiked fist. I stumbled, threw out my arm to grab the carriage and stifled a scream. The Angel was in my hand before anyone else had a chance to ask. Theo immediately echoed me, with the other boys following suit. I quietly ordered a pause of our small band and went to the carriage. Aelia was within, calmly stroking Leoncur, while Gelia murmured prayers for mercy and intervention. From her pale face and light sweat, she recognized the smell, too.

      There wasn’t enough room to turn around, and we weren’t going to run away too quickly in any case. What I needed right now was not an argument, and I let it show in my voice, “Stay down. Keep the curtains drawn.”

      I moved two boys to cover the carriage’s rear, two more to walk beside the horses while Theo drove and I walked in front. None of us were trained in mounted combat so the O’Conner’s horse got tied to the rear of the carriage. We kept our weapons drawn, but held them low (which I’ve always thought was the absolute friendliest way to show you were ready to kill someone).

      I closed my eyes for a moment, summoning up the Beast until it lurked behind a very thin veil in my eyes. My hand tightened upon my sword, then loosened as I took a deep breath. Only then I motioned for us to move out.

      There is a special way an animal moves when it is willing to shed blood. If you say any different, you have never seen an animal kill, man nor beast. Showing that you are ready for a fight will drive off all but three groups; the stupid, the desperate, and the skilled. Unfortunately, bandits usually fall into these three categories. Still, there was nothing for it but continue forward and look as mean as possible.

      Around the turn, we found one of those little villages too small to be on any map, further proof that we were making progress into civilized lands. They were not like River’s Bend, in fact they wouldn’t even fill one rambling clan house in the fort town. It was barely a village square containing only ten hovels, one pillar of smoke, fifty hollow cheeked and tear streaked faces. From the undercurrent of musky odor, they raised some kind of small herd animal. From the threadbare state of everything in sight, they did it badly. In the center there was a well fed man in shining armor astride a massive warhorse. He reined his mount around to face us, exposing the blackened husk tied to the stake at the center of a dying pyre, the source of the smoke and the smell that overpowered almost all others.

      Heavily bearded, with hair that exploded from his head in heavy steel colored braids, his face was powerful but wrinkled from decades spent in a suspicious squint. His armor was gold inlayed, no less functional for the ornamentation, but the sheer weight spoke volumes for his physical fitness. This was no doting grandfather, but a crafty warrior cast from an ancient mold. He lifted his helmet, forged into the face of a horrible angel of war, and pulled it on. Despite the shining brass halo carved to wreath his head in sanctimonious flames, I couldn’t summon any faith in his righteousness. The other hand balanced a bluntly functional war hammer across his lap. Black iron was consuming the silver plating where it had worn through with age and use, conferring in deadly whispers its master’s skill. His destrier was as white as driven snow, saddled in red leather with saddlebags painted with an iron fist crushing a bundle of burning arrows and scrolls.

      It was the sign of Amsar, merciless God of Justice. Those in his service simply could not be bargained with, showed little ability to stay out of the affairs of others, and were universally not quite sane.

      The Fog surged and vomited forth such raw distain and hatred it immediately turned my stomach into a cauldron of boiling acid. I reined in the hot words of the Beast and forced my head down. I saw no reason to make an exchange, nor to face so formidable a foe for no profit, so we made to go by. The Knight of Judgment simply stood like a statue, a pose I was pleased to see his mount spoiled by shifting constantly. It was a petty victory to see horses do not like the smell of greasy flesh–fed smoke as much as some masters. For my part, I wouldn’t be able to eat pork for weeks.

      I hung back and touched…
Damn it, I can never remember his name
! I touched the quiet, smelly kid on the arm. He obediently and quickly switched places with me so I would pass closest the armored sentinel. The knight’s helmeted head shifted to follow us as we passed, the steel mask frozen in an expression of howling indignation. We drew nearly abreast him when I let a small sigh escape. For once, just once, we were going to make it a little closer to Carolaughan without further risk.

      Then the voice cracked over us, full of military bearing, “Why do men carry naked blades on the King’s road?”

      Given the opportunity, I would have put a knife to Theo’s back to keep the carriage moving, but he was young, and a soldier, and out of reach of my knife. He was trained to obey orders from voices like that one, especially orders that had not actually been given. He yanked the reigns and the carriage came to a halt. The knight urged his mount into the center of the path to block us.

      Shit.
I was now able to chalk another tally in the ‘wrong’ column, bringing my average to ‘fairly often’, I kept walking forward, hoping to shunt him aside by force of will as I spoke, “We were attacked a few days ago by brigands. We are low on men and cautious of our charge to protect the Sister of Mercy and the noble Lady riding in the carriage. Stand aside.”

      My gambit failed, making my new total ‘nearly always wrong’, but while I stopped well within his ability to strike at me, I also stopped close enough to strike at him. My fingers caressed the robe of the Phantom Angel, memorizing his heft and promising deadly use. I stared at the knight insolently.

      He peered left and right, then his voice came forth again like a gape of magma, slow and fiery echoes from the depths of his helm, “The boys hiding behind you are guards, but you, yourself, are not. You wear no livery.”

      Even after the horror and death of the night at the
castra
I realized my blood thudded in my ears like war itself, my arms tingled in anticipation of a kill.
Right blood–thirsty bastard, am I not?
“I am Crow, a mercenary hired to ensure a speedy trek to Carolaughan. Now stand aside.“

      His demeanor changed for the worse. I admit, I was pressing, almost hoping for fight. My eyes saw not the scene before me, but a hundred tactical decisions playing out at the same time. “Have you grievance with the Holy Sword Arm of Amsar?”

      Everyone in earshot winced at the naming of a God. Naming Gods called their attention to a place, and such places in scripture usually wind up as battlefields, plague pits, or craters. Their names are used in the vilest of insults and curses. This fool had a dangerous tongue and I needed to stop this, but I needed to let him an out to back down, “As long as I can walk the King’s road–“ I gestured to the frozen track about us with my sword, for emphasis. “in peace, surely not, Holy Knight.”

      My brain was trying to smooth over the burrs in the conversation, but the words tasted like offal as I spit them out. I heard the whipping whistle of a switch, a cry, and then echoes of humiliation. Then the Fog billowed and quite without warning the pulsing hatred, the bile, the pressure, were gone. I blinked and finally saw the knight clearly for the first time. There was a pause. Silence like that before the first charge of battle, where men commit themselves to whatever god they think will hear.

      The rider leaned toward me, his voice ringing in his helm. “I recognize your sword, Crow. I do not recognize you.” He shifted in the saddle, moving like a predator, “It belonged to one of my brothers, who named it Witch–Light. How came you by it?”