Authors: Miles Cameron
They came in high, and dived almost straight on the trebuchet.
The watch was just changing and the soldiers were completely unready. The ongoing watch was already tired, the offgoing watch was exhausted, and no one reacted in time.
Before No Head could even rotate the ballista the first monster’s claws opened, and his rock fell – struck the stump of the tower a few paces from the engine, and bounced away with a
crack like lightning to fall harmlessly to the hillside below.
The second wyvern dropped lower, wings folded against his back, but he opened his wings too early, bobbed, and his rock went sailing away to kill one of the hundreds of sheep who were still
penned on the ridge.
The third wyvern was the oldest and the canniest. It swooped off the target Thorn had intended and laid its rock almost gently on the ballista, smashing the engine and throwing No Head off the
tower.
The archer shrieked and grabbed at the gargoyles of the hospital balcony as he fell.
The wyverns swept away.
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
An hour later the wyverns were back. This time all three imitated the eldest, coming lower along the ridge and rising on the last thermal before the walls of the fortress to
unleash their missiles at point blank range.
This time they were met by a hail of darts, bolts and arrows, loosed from every corner of the courtyard, the towers, and even the hospital balcony.
All three were hit, and flew away, angry and unsuccessful.
Their stones knocked a hole in the captain’s Commandery, killed two nuns in the hospital, and crushed a war horse and a squire in the stable.
The captain slept through it.
Lissen Carak – The Red Knight
He didn’t wake until late afternoon. He awoke in the comfort of his own room, although it felt odd. Air was moving around him.
Someone had fixed blankets and an old tapestry over a hole the size of a cart. A hole in the wall that went right through to the outside air.
His little porch was gone, too.
He got his feet on the floor, and Toby Pardieu had his clothes laid out on the press, and long leather boots over his arm, clean and black.
His knight’s belt was polished, shining like something hermetical.
‘Which the Abbess has invited ye ta’ dinner,’ Toby said. ‘Master Michael is at his exercises.’
The captain groaned as his weight came on his thighs and hips, and just for a moment he had a flash of what old age might be like.
‘Ta semptress ha gi’in me these linens,’ Toby said. He pointed to a basket. ‘New, clean, an’ pressed. Shirts. Caps. Braes. Two pair black cloth hose.’ Toby
pointed at the basket.
The captain ran his hands over a shirt. The stitches were neat, very small, almost perfectly even but not quite, almost a pattern. The seamstress had used an undyed thread on the glorious new
white of the linen – so confident in her skills that the very slight contrast was itself a decoration. A very subtle declaration of skill. Subtle, like the power with which she’d imbued
the garments.
He picked up the shirt. The power was golden – a bright, white gold, the colour of purity. The Sun.
The shirt didn’t burn him, nor did he expect it to. He’d found that out, years ago.
Toby interrupted his reverie. ‘Wine? Hot cider?’ he asked. He looked at the floor. ‘Cider is good,’ he mumbled.
‘Cider. And I’ll wear these new things, but with my scarlet cote, Toby. Black is for—’ He sighed. ‘Black is for other occasions.’
‘Sorry, my lord.’ Toby blushed.
‘How could you know? Any word on the wounded? How’s Bad Tom?’ He felt the crisp cleanness of the new white shirt. ‘I’ll have a bath before I dress, if you can
arrange it.’
Toby nodded at the challenge. ‘Twa shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ He vanished. Reappeared. ‘Ser Thomas is up and about. An’ Ser Jehannes, as well.’
The captain heard the boy’s footsteps, running. The boy made him smile. Made him feel old.
He stripped out of his arming clothes. He had had them on for – hmm. Two days now, without rest?
The shirt was damp and warm and smelled bad. Not like sweat, but like old blood. There was a lot of blood in it. It had a tear, too, all the way down one side.
He had a mirror, somewhere in his kit. Michael had unpacked his malle and his scrip and the portmanteau he stored in the wagons – he rooted around, vaguely aware that evening was coming,
and he wasn’t armed.
He found his bronze mirror in its travelling case, found his razor, and unfolded it from its fancy bronze handle. Looked in the mirror.
He’d forgotten the wound he’d taken last night. He had a long crease down the left side of his face which was still sweating a little blood. As soon as he looked at it, it started to
hurt. It didn’t look bad. It merely hurt.
He shook his head. Felt fuzzy with post-combat shock, and the shock of what he’d just seen in the mirror.
He tried to look at the wound in his right shoulder. It was a dull ache, and he couldn’t locate it, despite the fact that his arming clothes were soaked in blood.
A bit more of a shock, that.
Stiff with blood would be more accurate.
He peeled his braes off. They were stuck to his crotch with blood and sweat, and where his leg met his groin, he had sweat sores. He
stank
.
Toby reappeared. ‘Which the bath is on its way, m’lord. I told Master Michael and Master Jacques you was awake.’
Jacques came through the door and sniffed.
Even naked, the captain still had authority. ‘Toby, take my arming cote out and air it. Give my linens to the laundress and ask her respectfully if they can be saved.’
Jacques was holding one of the new arming caps. ‘This is
fine
work. As good as court.’ He looked at Toby.
‘The tire woman. Mag.’ Toby shrugged. ‘She tol’ me what the captain had ordered of her. Did I do aught wrong?’
The captain shook his head. Jacques smiled. ‘I’ll go and pay her. And order my own,’ he said. ‘You are commanded to dinner with the Abbess,’ Jacques went on.
‘As are a number of other worthies. Best dress well and try to behave yourself.’
The captain rolled his eyes. After a pause, he said, ‘How bad is the wound on my back?’
Jacques looked at the back of his shoulder. ‘Healed,’ he said with professional finality.
Toby had the arming jacket over his arm.
The captain snatched at it and held it up.
The right arm had a slash that ran from just above the underarm voider of chain all the way down to the top of the underarm seam.
Jacques gave a sharp noise like a dog’s bark.
‘One of the daemons tagged me.’ The captain shrugged. ‘I slept . . . what a sleep!’ Suddenly he picked up the goblet by his bedside.
‘The pretty novice gave me a cordial I was to give you,’ Toby said. He cowered a little.
The captain found his wallet, a small miracle all by itself, and extracted a silver leopard. He snapped it across the room to young Toby, who scooped it out of the air.
‘I think I owe you a debt of thanks, young Toby,’ he said. ‘Now –
bath.’
He scratched himself.
Out in the yard he could see that there were men with swords and bucklers, practising. He walked across the room, and peeled back a corner of the tapestry to gaze out over the fields, the
sheepfolds, and the smoking ruin of Lower Town.
‘Wyverns?’ he asked. He was still unbelievably tired.
‘Been pounding us with rocks all day,’ Jacques said cheerfully. ‘Gave No Head the fright of his life. Ballista is gone.’
‘He’s moving his engines again,’ the captain said. ‘No – he’s having boglins dig a new mound, but the engines are still safely out of range.’ The
captain found he was scratching things that could not publicly be scratched, not even in front of servants.
‘I need to see Tom, if he’s up to it. With the day’s reports.’
Then he squeaked and ripped the coverlet off the bed as two farm girls appeared in the doorway with a tub of steaming water.
‘Coo!’ said the dark-haired one. ‘Nothing I ain’t seen before.’ She giggled, though, and the other girl blushed, and then they were gone.
But the water wasn’t gone.
‘I’ll wash myself, if you don’t mind,’ he told Jacques.
Jacques nodded. ‘You’re too old to be bathed.’ He counted the linens in the basket. ‘I’ll just go pay the lady, eh? And fetch Tom.’
‘Thanks, Jacques,’ said the captain. The water was hot – nearly boiling hot.
He got in anyway, hoping to scald some of the dirt and worse away. The captain was sure there was something crawling over him.
He had just immersed his torso – slowly – when there was a stir behind him.
‘Tom?’ he called.
‘No,’ replied Harmodius.
The captain wriggled. The water seemed to burn where he had abrasions, and where he had cuts, and where he had sores.
So pretty much everywhere.
He realised that his soap – his lovely almond scented soap from Galle – was in his leather portmanteau.
Harmodius came across the room. ‘You are stronger,’ he said without preamble. ‘I saw you last night. Fast and strong.’
‘I do your exercises every day,’ the captain admitted. ‘And as you said – I try to do everything I can by the arts.’ He shrugged, and the water was delicious.
‘When he lets me.’
‘Our adversary?’ Harmodius nodded.
‘He’s camped outside my place of power.’ The captain reached all the way to the well, a long way for him. Thirty paces through rock. But he could feel the power there, now. He
reached out, touched it, took a sip, and cast.
The soap rose, crossed the room, and fell into the bath with a splash.
‘Damn,’ said the captain. Not his soap. The sharpening hones for his razor.
Harmodius grinned. ‘Soap? Is it pink?’
‘Yes,’ said the captain.
‘Still, you are much improved. I know you were well trained, you just have to be less secretive.’ He shrugged. ‘An easy thing for me to say.’ He picked up the soap and
then held it out of reach.
‘I’d be able to do more if he weren’t right outside my door, waiting to come in and rip my soul out,’ said the captain, scratching. ‘Soap please?’
Harmodius looked out from the tapestry. ‘Nice new window,’ he said. ‘Get your power elsewhere. You know how.’
‘From the well?’ the captain asked.
‘How about the sun?’ Harmodius asked.
‘I’m a child of the Wild,’ the captain said. ‘My mother made me that way.’
Harmodius wasn’t looking at him. He was looking out over the fields. ‘Do you trust me, boy?’
The captain looked at the tall, proud figure. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘Not to give me my soap, anyway.’
Harmodius barked a laugh. ‘Fair enough. Fair enough. Do you trust me as a mentor in Hermeticism?’
The captain thought for a long few heartbeats. ‘I think so,’ he said.
The old Magus nodded and ripped the tapestry off its hooks, so that the afternoon sun fell right on the tub. ‘Take the soap. With the sun. Do it.’ He held the soap where it could be
seen.
The captain felt the sun against his bare skin like a faint weight. He held up a wet hand, and let the sun lick it.
He had always liked the sun. Especially in spring.
. . . scent of flowers . . .
For a fraction of a heartbeat he’d had it, and then revulsion set in. It was like a gag reflex.
The soap didn’t move.
‘Try harder,’ Harmodius said.
‘You could just give me the soap, and we could do this when I’m dressed.’ The captain felt very much at a disadvantage, naked, wet, hurt and vulnerable.
Harmodius narrowed his eyes. ‘Cast.’
The captain tried again. He let the sun kiss him. He drank in—
And spat up, narrowly avoiding his bath. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Better,’ Harmodius said. ‘Very good indeed. May I tell you what I admire in you, Captain?’
‘You’re going to try flattery now?’ asked the captain.
‘It’s not that you are not afraid of anything, because, as far as I can see, you are afraid of everything.’ Harmodius crossed his arms. ‘It’s that you overcome that
fear every time.’ He nodded. ‘Now seize the power of the sun and
cast.’
He let the sun caress him. He felt the power of it, which was rich, like good cheese – thicker than the power of the Wild, and more intense.
And then something in his mind slammed shut.
‘Damn it,’ Harmodius said. ‘Again.’
The captain took a deep breath, and tried again. He could
feel
the power. And he wanted it. To touch the sun—
To touch the sun was to be clean.
I am the child of incest and hate. I was made to be the destroyer. I can never harness the power of the sun.
The bathwater was warm, and the sun was warm. He pushed his revulsion down, and he reached for it. He thought of riding in the sun. Of horses in the sun. Of Amicia standing in the sun—
Just for a moment, he connected again. The sun falling on his hand was a conductor, and his skin drank in raw power like a sponge.
And then he gagged on it again. He coughed, physically, and the soap, halfway across the room, fell to the floor.
‘Ah-HA!’ roared the Magus.
‘I can’t do it,’ said the captain.
‘You just did it,’ Harmodius said. He picked up the soap and handed it to the man in the bath. ‘There is no limit, boy. There are no rules. You can tap the sun. For a long
time, you will resist it – something in you will resist. But by God, boy, you just reached out and tapped the sun in its purist form. I know men who take the sun from water, from the air.
Damn few take power straight from the source.’
His water was cooling, and the captain began to soap himself.
It grew cooler, too fast.
‘You bastard,’ the captain said to the Magus.
‘Best do something about it,’ Harmodius said.
The captain reached out to the well.
Harmodius was there, a tower of blue fire.
He
went into his palace.
Don’t, said Prudentia. He’s waiting.
‘So he is, said the captain after touching the key hole.