The sword unbound, p.10
The Sword Unbound, page 10
“Now we see the Lammergeier. Uncloaked at last.”
He fell back, unconscious. Bor lifted the old man and stumbled away towards backstage. With every step, he expected that the ivy-collar would close on his throat, or that a Ranger would step out of the shadows and demand that he stand and fight.
Everything had broken, except his leash. But no one tugged on it as he fled.
By the time they reached the stables, Bor could barely walk and Rhuel’s face was grey. Bor lashed Rhuel to his horse’s saddle so the knight would not fall, and took Agyla’s horse too, the reins of all three animals bundled in his hand.
The city was in uproar. A great column of green mist rose from the central palace, the trunk of a ghastly tree spreading its mephitic branches out over all of Arden. There would be no dawn. They escaped out the south gate in the confusion. The guard post lay empty. There was blood on the ground by the gate.
There was light a few hours later, though, outside the canopy of the necromiasma. The vapours now covered most of the Cleft. Fires raged, their plumes of smoke adding to the foulness of the clouds. Banners flew atop the gates, but he could not make out the devices. He could see long lines of people fleeing the city. Or were they columns of troops?
Better, he decided, to avoid meeting anyone until he could figure out which side was winning. He led their horses off the main road, taking to goat paths that wound through the hills south-east of the Cleft. Neither the first touch of spring nor the burning city brought much warmth to the air.
He looked back, but did not see Agyla.
By noon, Sir Rhuel grew feverish despite the chill, and his wound stank. They encamped in a thicket, and Bor laid the knight down on a mossy patch. He draped Sir Rhuel’s cloak as a blanket, and the jewelled clasp caught his eye. That clasp was worth a good few coins. So were Rhuel’s clothes, the ones not stained with shit and blood. Three horses, whatever money Rhuel had on him… he’d killed for less.
He remembered a similar camp in the Fossewood. He’d nearly died there, when Martens had used the ivy-noose on him for the first time. Some dwarf had saved him and Olva Forster, and when he’d woken, Bor had tried to rob the dwarf and flee. It made sense then; it made sense now. But Olva had stopped him.
“Stay,” he told Sir Rhuel. “I’ll come back soon.”
There was a farmstead nearby; he’d seen it as they’d climbed the hill. It was the leanest time of the year, but he would make them find some food to spare. Rhuel did not notice him go. The old knight mumbled and muttered to himself, sweat collecting on his moustache like dew despite the cold.
Bor’s Rootless instincts came back to him as he crept up on the farmhouse. He lurked in the hedgerows and watched for trouble; a farm boy who fancied himself a hero, maybe, or some old bastard with a pitchfork.
He found a different sort of trouble. There were four, no, five rogues who’d had the same idea he had. Mismatched gear that spoke of recent looting. He could see them through the open door of the farmhouse, digging through sacks of provisions.
“Eh, you’re the rich lad from the inn.”
Bor spun around. Sitting on a tree root, was Magga, the Rootless woman he’d met in Arden.
Never in his life had Bor been called rich. But he was still wearing Sir Rhuel’s expensive clothes, and even though they were filthy, for the first time in his life he looked like a man worth robbing.
“I’m not rich,” he protested.
“No more free drink, then. And no more inn, neither. A bad start to the year, and no mistake.”
Bor nodded towards the farmhouse. “Are you with them?”
“I suppose. They’re from Arden. I was with ’em in a tavern, last night, when we all ran when we smelled the rot. Miasma, they call it. I never thought I’d see the dead walk again in the southland, but I was wrong. They were rising all over the city, every churchyard giving up its dead. Just shamblers, mind you. But these southern lads are soft, and come over all wobbly when they see a zombie.” Magga clucked her tongue in disapproval. “I told ’em you can just stick ’em, but they ran, and I ran too. They found yon cottage and threw them that lived there out.” She studied him for a moment. “You hungry?”
“It’s not only food I need.”
The ruffians from Arden might have been able to drive some poor farmer from his home, but when Bor showed up with his fine sword, they were outmatched. They yielded to him, scavenging dogs driven away from a kill by a bear. Bor brought Sir Rhuel up to the cottage, and laid him on the pile of hay and threadbare blankets that passed for a bed. Magga claimed to have some talent as a healer, and examined the knight’s wound. She spooned broth into his mouth, but he ate little.
“He’s mostly dead,” she diagnosed. “He’ll last maybe three days, but not more than that. If he was in Necrad, I’d put the ender’s copper aside right now.” She must have seen the look on Bor’s face, for she added: “Up in Necrad, human corpses don’t stay dead, aye? So if someone dies, you’ve got to put ’em down again when they get lively. One good stab does it. Dead-enders like me, we work inside the city as well as outside. The quality don’t like to talk about, and some get a doctor to do it quiet-like, but a dead-ender’s cheaper.” She sniffed. “I doubt he’ll come back here when he dies, but depends which way the wind blows, I guess.” There was a cheerful practicality to how she talked about the risen dead.
“He’s not so far gone that a wizard couldn’t cure him,” said Bor, “nor a healing cordial.”
“Have you any cordial?”
“No.”
“Are you secretly a wizard?”
“No.”
“Well then! Just leave him,” counselled Magga. “He won’t last long, and we should be off down the road before trouble finds us. I’ll end him quick, and we can be gone. Stick with Magga, and you’ll have good luck.” She grinned at him, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Magga’s seen bad times before. Magga knows how to live.”
Disappearing sounded like a wonderful thing. Bor longed to disappear. But he remembered the ostler’s threat. There’s no place in Summerswell you can hide from us, once we set our mind upon you. We found you once, we can find you again. Invisible hands murdering the dog, invisible hands striking him down on the street. He wondered if Agyla was alive or dead, and if she still lived, would she come after him and Sir Rhuel? The poem besmirching the Lammergeier’s name was done, and the word was out – the knight had done what was asked of him, and Bor had only ever been a minor part of the whole affair. Maybe he was done with the Rangers, a free man again, able to choose his own path.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the coin from Necrad. Magga sucked air past her broken teeth at the sight of it.
“Help me,” said Bor, “and I’ll give you this.”
The Roadhag studied Bor for a moment, then clasped her fingers around his hand, folding the coin back into his palm.
“You keep it. You keep it. I’ll help for free, ’ey, and we’ll be friends on the Road.”
They rode south, Magga on Agyla’s horse, Bor on his, and Sir Rhuel between them, barely clinging to the saddle. They rode until it was too dark to risk further travel. The glow from the new miasma above Arden did not shed enough light to see by.
Once dawn glimmered in the sky, Bor had them set off again, risking the main road for the last few miles. Sir Rhuel groaned as they lifted him onto his horse, and there was fresh blood on the bandages. The hills on either side grew steeper as they came to the south end of the Cleft. Ahead lay Castle Bayard.
Magga glanced over her shoulder, then nudged Bor to look. In the distance, he could see other riders, following them down the road. Morning light flashed off shields and spearpoints, but they were too distant for him to make out any symbols or banners. Were they loyal to the Lords of Summerswell, or were they traitors? Bor couldn’t tell. He didn’t even know how to answer that question for himself. He was a Rootless sellsword. He owed no one loyalty.
But still he grabbed Sir Rhuel’s shoulder to support the wounded knight as they rode on.
The banner of Arden still fluttered above the castle. The gate was shut, and there were guards on the walls, but only a few. Bor hammered on the door.
“I was a guest here, with my master Sir Rhuel of Eavesland! Let us in!”
“What Lord do you serve?” called a voice from above.
“I bloody told you. Sir Rhuel. The poet.”
“And who does he serve?”
Bor kicked the door again. “I don’t know. Ask him when he can speak.”
A viewport on the door was drawn back, and Bor saw the eyes of Bayard’s wife, red-rimmed from weeping.
“Are you just now come from Arden?”
“Aye.”
“Baron Bayard was summoned to pay homage to the Princess Laerlyn. We saw the cloud rise over the Cleft. What happened? Have you any word of my husband?” Her voice quavered at the end.
“No,” Bor lied, “but my master Sir Rhuel was there in the palace too. He may know more – but he’s injured. He needs help. Let us in.”
The gate opened. Magga hesitated for a moment. “I don’t much care to be locked up behind high walls.” But she followed him in.
“Shut the gate!” said Bor. “Riders are close behind, and I don’t know who they are.”
They took Sir Rhuel up to the room where they’d put Bor. The castle wizard examined him. There was no healing cordial to hand, for whatever stock Baron Bayard possessed had been in that secret cache in the cellar. The wizard grumbled, but at Lady Bayard’s urging – and Bor’s glare – she agreed to work a healing spell. Such a spell, the wizard warned, would drain her of all the magic she’d accrued over the last decade or more. She set to work weaving the spell, casting Sir Rhuel’s horoscope and drawing connections between the knight’s fate and the stars that governed restoration.
Bor left Magga to watch over Sir Rhuel, and went back down to the gatehouse as the pursuing riders approached the castle. He peered out through an arrow-slit.
“They’ve raised a banner. A white fox and two moons. Who’s that?”
“Hira of the Westcleft,” said Lady Bayard. “A friend of my husband.”
Bor’s mind flashed back to Agyla’s judgement of the banners at the palace of Arden. “I wouldn’t open that gate. Not if you want to see your daughter again.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Rangers had the elves take your girl. Those men outside are foes of the elves. I don’t mean to tell you your business, but… Well, as long as they’re outside your walls, you’re safe enough.”
“Lady Bayard,” cried one of the Westcleft knights. “Let us in!”
She climbed to the rampart. “What business do you have here?” she called.
“Baron Hira sent us to bolster your strength, and to defend your keep against foes. Your castle watches the entrance to the Cleft; any foes entering Arden must pass this way. Castle Bayard cannot fall into the hands of the enemy.”
“And who are these foes I should fear?”
The knight approached the gate. “My lady, I do not know which of your husband’s secrets you are privy to, but a day long anticipated is at hand. There shall be a reckoning with those who rule unjustly. The cloud is a signal to rise up! Open the gate.”
“My husband is gone to Arden,” said Lady Bayard, “and until he returns, I keep his castle safe. These gates remain closed.”
“My lady,” growled the knight, “there are weapons in your cellar that belong to us. Your husband hid them there in anticipation of this day. You must yield them over.”
“They are already gone,” said Lady Bayard. “Now be off with you!”
By nightfall, Sir Rhuel had recovered enough to sit up in bed and eat, and to send Bor down to the wine cellar for the last of Bayard’s good wine – “for I fear the poor man has no more need of it”.
“His wife asked me if I had news of him,” said Bor, “and I told her I didn’t see his body. Maybe he’s alive.”
“Maybe he’s dead, and walked out of there,” giggled Magga from the corner. She’d gorged herself on the contents of the pantry, and was now digging into a huge Yule-cake. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and the walls of Castle Bayard seemed secure, but the window faced north and Bor could see the necromiasma hanging over Arden. Nothing was secure any more.
“It will be a long time before a full accounting is made of the fallen in the palace alone,” said Sir Rhuel. “The rebels turned the Rangers’ trap back on them; they smuggled in weapons and put the loyalists to the sword. That was only the beginning. War is kindled, and who knows what will happen?”
“They can’t win, though, can they? Not against all of Summerswell. The Lords, and the Church, and everything,” said Bor. “Even Lord Bone never got close to that.”
“It’s hard to say,” said Rhuel. He shifted in bed and groaned. “I would agree with you, I think, but I’d not wager my full fortune on it.” He frowned. “Did you get my purse from my room?”
“No,” admitted Bor.
“One coin,” said Magga, “and he promised it to me.”
“Well, I’ll wager my full fortune, then. Lord Bone’s attack unified Summerswell against an external foe, but this war tears at every division. Ambition and treachery shall be rewarded. And with Arden gone, there can be no campaign to quickly retake Necrad now – which means that whoever rules that city will command its magic. If they aid the rebels… it will go badly for all of us. Especially those who served the Rangers, even unwillingly.”
“It’ll go badly,” said Magga. “Mortals and magic, it always does.”
“You’re not wrong there,” said Bor.
“I think,” said Sir Rhuel, “that our mutual friend will be in the thick of the fighting, and that is precisely where I do not want to be. I made my reputation in the last war from a prison cell in the Crownland; I am minded to see this one out from even further away. A lovely inn down in the Eavesland, maybe.”
“They’ll be able to find us no matter where we go. And Eavesland’s full of elves.”
“I would hope, Bor, that our mutual friend will have more pressing concerns than hunting us down.” Sir Rhuel poured himself more wine. “I should sleep, I know, but I’ll mourn a little longer first.” He raised his goblet. “To the first casualty of the war – my reputation as a poet! I thought to make the groundlings hate the Lammergeier, but they hated me instead. Nearly murdered on stage, and my performance interrupted by the whole city being engulfed in the miasma of damnation – now that’s a review. The danger of working on commission, as opposed to following one’s muse. Perilous is the life of a freelancer.”
Magga frowned. “Does he always talk like that?”
“Aye.”
She ran her thumb over the blade of her spear.
Bor drained the last of his wine. “I’m going to stand a watch. If I were those lads from Westcleft, I’d not give up so easily, not if I’d been ordered to take this castle before anyone came up the Road.”
“Take my cloak,” said Rhuel. “It’ll be a cold night. And Bor – I’m in your debt. It was no small thing you did, getting my carcass out of there, and finding me a healer, too. I know we were forced together by circumstances, and you did not choose to serve me.”
Bor turned the coin over in his hand. “Ah, to hell with it. Companions of the Road, eh?”
CHAPTER NINE
Bor walked the walls, watching fresh flurries of snow blanket the hillside below the castle, and the surrounding woods. North, the new necromiasma glowed, a green stain on the night sky. The night wore on, and the men of the Westcleft did not return.
In the grey hour before dawn, Magga found him. “The wind’s changed,” she said, “I smell miasma on the air. Best to check the crypt.”
“For what?”
“The dead, of course. If there’s a fresh corpse in there.”
He had ridden past a dozen little village cemeteries on the road to Arden. Bor imagined the vapours of the necromiasma drifting south, waking the dead. The sooner they were on the Road, the better.
He forced open the chapel. Rows of pews lined the stone chamber, the grandest reserved for Bayard’s family, and the knights of his household. The Erlking’s face looked down at them from the wall, his stone features blending into the carved image of the holy tree that dominated the north wall.
On one pew, Bor spotted a little cloth doll, a child’s toy. Had Berysala left it there? He could imagine the child sitting there, forced to listen to some interminable sermon. Or had Lady Bayard brought it when she prayed for her child’s safe return? The child did not deserve to be used as a pawn in the intrigues of elves and lords, spirits and heroes. None of them did.
The holy shrine, a sacred space reserved for clerics, was concealed within the carven tree, and beside it was a small door that led down into the crypt. Magga paused by the shrine and licked her lips.
“Want to look? Could be something worth taking in there. Rich chapel like this, bound to be a jewelled grail or somesuch.”
Bor shook his head. “It’s bad luck to rob a shrine. Let’s just be done with this.” He shoved open the door to the crypt. Stale air washed past him, and he gagged.
“In Necrad,” muttered Magga, “we robbed the temples of the Witch Elves, and the Wilder thought ’em living gods. No one feared do that.”
Generations of Bayards lay interred in the crypt. You could trace the fortunes of the family by the tombs; the older ones were just slabs of stone, simple and unadorned. Later, they’d had the wealth to hire dwarven masons, and effigies of dead knights lay on their marble biers, staring eternally at the ceiling. Magga had him disinter the most recent casket – the elder brother of the current Baron, fallen in Lord Bone’s war. The dead-ender peered into the tomb, and shook her head.
“All’s well. The casket’s well sealed. Even if the miasma blows this far south, he’ll stay dead, and all the others are too rotten to walk.”
“Bloody waste of time, this was.”
