The Dread Wyrm (Traitor Son Cycle) (57 page)

He set his feet and cast—a wind

water—

and a cloud of bees.

He wove gold and green into a net, and cast all three at once.

Then he followed Amicia into the smoke.

The two children were the two Amicia had slipped past when first she climbed the stands—days ago, it seemed. The beam was the structure’s main supporting beam, and it pinned them across their broken legs—massive fractures.

The fire was an inferno, hell come to earth.

As a little girl, Amicia’s village had a bonfire for All Hallows. She could remember it—the making of it, the anticipation, and her horror as she saw its power, not just in the real, but the
aethereal.
Fire. Fast, and ruthless and without intelligence.

The fire had all the fuel of the royal box—hangings, painted with oils, and tapestries and wood partitions, furniture and beams and bleachers. It had an
aethereal
component, too. Someone—some
thing
had
pushed
the fire.

The two children were heartbeats from death with the smoke and fire—and the girl could not stop screaming. Her brother had already fainted.

Amicia lacked the
potentia,
after healing, and a foolish struggle with death, to both lift the beam and hold the fire. But her trust in God was so absolute that she drained herself, holding the fire at bay, while four brave normal men—a father, and three of his servants—heaved with futile intensity at the beam. The father was weeping openly at his own impotence.

“Why?” he screamed.

Amicia pushed on the flames.

Something
on the other side pushed back, and laughed.

“Got you,” Gabriel said at her shoulder. He put his hands on the beam and it moved.

A sudden gust of wind, like the back of a storm god’s hand, slapped the fire away from Amicia.

She was knocked to her knees—instantly soaked to the skin, and steam rose, scalding, and stopped on her shield.

The bigger servant pulled the girl clear.

Gabriel grunted.

The father, his fine clothes ruined by smoke, got his son by the shoulders and pulled, and the boy screamed, denied the mercy of oblivion as his broken legs were wrenched from under the heavy wood.

They retreated the length of a house, and Amicia knelt. “Give me—” she demanded.

Gabriel put a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m out,” he said. “Now get on my horse.”

“You saved us all,” the man said. “I’m—oh, my God—”

“Get on my horse—Nell!” he shouted.

The crowd had thinned—men-at-arms could be seen on the other side of the smoke.

Nell came through the crowd. She had no choice, and men cursed and women screamed at the two horses.

“I can save them,” Amicia said.

“Get on my horse,” Gabriel said. “Don’t be a fool. There’s no more you can do today. Other people can bandage them, and we’re about to be taken.
Taken! Amicia!
”

He got up on Ataelus, and extended his hand—his good right hand.

Behind him, his bees set upon the soldiers and the crowd somewhat indiscriminately.

“You’re the Green Knight?” asked a pretty blonde woman. She was so pretty, that with his life at stake and Amicia hesitating, he still saw her.

“Sometimes,” he answered.

She became bolder, and caught his stirrup. “Are you going to the Queen?” she asked. “I’m one of her women. A laundress.”

He could see no evil in her. “Nell!” he shouted.

Nell reached down and without a shade of his hesitation, grabbed Amicia’s hand and dragged her across her saddle.

Gabriel might have laughed, except he was too tired and too angry. He reached for the blonde woman as he turned his horse, got his good hand under her armpit a little more roughly than he had intended, and put his spurs into poor Ataelus, who deserved nothing of the kind.

The blonde woman squawked, and then he had her. She got a leg over the saddle even as Ataelus exploded into one of his bursts of speed.

A knot of men-at-arms and mounted soldiers burst out of the smoke, the crowd, with the bees at their heels.

Gabriel looked back. They were riding through the camp Ser Gerald Random had built for the visiting knights. Half the pavilions were empty, and some held squatters. But there were streets of wedge tents and streets of round pavilions, and double-ended pavilions for the richer lords, with cross streets so retinues could move about. It was like a clean, neat, festive military camp, and the tents stretched away for a third of a mile. The
ropes—guy ropes and pegged wind-ropes—often came well out into the streets making it, in fact, a riding nightmare, even without twenty armed pursuers.

He locked his left arm across the young woman in front of him. “If I have to fight,” he shouted, “just fall off. Don’t stay.”

She didn’t answer.

Ataelus was a fine horse—the best, really—but he was not fast. His pursuers hadn’t made multiple passes in the lists, or been awake since dark morning.

They began to gain rapidly.

Nell, despite her smaller horse, had no such troubles—she was small, Amicia was thin, and they were drawing away from Ataelus and from the pursuit.

I’m going to be captured,
Gabriel thought angrily.

He had a thought—
glanced into his palace and was saddened to see that the golden thread was gone from his ankle.

Not so much gone, as a mere slip, a spider web filament.

So much for invulnerability.

He leaned into the ear of the woman in front of him. “I need you off,” he said.

“I’m ready,” she said.

He reined Ataelus in, turning to the right. Ataelus understood immediately, and when a little of his heavy speed was shed, he pivoted on his hind legs, almost fully stopped—and the woman slid to the ground with real agility, catching her skirts and rolling.

Nice legs…

Gabriel had his sword in his right hand and his reins in the left. There were at least a dozen men coming at him. But they were spread out over a furlong, and none of the leaders were knights.

They were on the main street of the northern knights’ camp—where the Red Knight and his company would have been in other circumstances. Gabriel could see the red pavilion that was his rally point—he was south and west of it, too far away to do any good.

He had no curses left. He went through the first six men without taking a bad blow—his own actions had been a blur of covers and short, vicious counter-cuts—and the seventh man was all alone and Gabriel reached out with his injured left hand, caught his bridle, and pulled as he back cut with his sword from a high left guard, parrying the man’s boar spear.

The pain was briefly intense as he pulled the horse’s head over—until the horse rolled, crushing its rider.

“That was stupid,” Gabriel said aloud, aware he’d just maimed his own hand.

In that moment, a red thunderbolt struck the rear of the men coming at him. Gavin—in his coat armour—had it all—the red surcoat, the
panache, and the magnificent horse barding of red silk—and he looked like an ancient god of war as he struck the pursuers with a war hammer, killing and dismounting men with every swing.

Gabriel sat and watched his brother rout a small army. It was a brilliant feat of arms, and all Gabriel could manage was some desperate panting.

Gabriel backed Ataelus, looking to see if any of the men he’d dismounted were coming at him from behind. He turned his horse, and the blonde woman was astride one of the armoured pages, with a dagger at his throat.

He didn’t take her threat seriously, and he struck her in the side with his armoured fist.

She killed him. One push from her slim hands and he was dead.

She turned her head away and rolled off him.

“The rendezvous is
this way
,” Gavin said with some brotherly sarcasm. “Unless you’ve found more maidens to rescue? Christ, you have.”

Gavin saluted with a shockingly bloody war hammer. “Your servant, fair maid.”

The blonde woman put a hand to her mouth.

Gabriel put his own hand on hers. “Let’s see if we can manage the mounting better on a second try,” he said.

“You fair pulled my arm out of the socket last time,” the woman said reproachfully.

“I promise to do better,” Gabriel said.

“Who’s he?” the woman asked, pointing at the gore-besmattered knight. The pursuers had baulked—facing Toby and Michael and Ser Bertran.

They made the mistake of charging while he got the blonde woman back onto his horse. Ser Danved appeared from a maze of tent ropes like a trick rider and unhorsed a knight—knocking man and horse to the ground from side-on. Ser Danved was a big man, and he and his horse cut the whole column of pursuers—the men who’d passed his one-man ambush were at even odds with Ser Michael and Ser Bertran and young Toby, and were quickly unhorsed. Gavin charged into the midst of the fight, and panicked horses burst into the tent lines and men went down in all directions as their horses crashed through standing tents, and the melee became general.

“I’m Blanche,” the woman said. “In the pictures, the girl’s always
behind
the knight.”

Gabriel had to laugh.

It took another sharp fight to get clear of the camp; the whole of the
casa
, pages and archers included, proved a match for the disorganized Galles, and cut their way free.

“We could just cut our way in and get de Vrailly,” Gavin said. He was in high spirits.

“What, and just leave the Queen where we found her?” Gabriel cocked an eyebrow.

The Queen was on a good palfrey. She was as pale as milk.

They’d taken every horse of every man they’d unhorsed, so that they were like a moving livestock show—Ser Danved’s joke. Nell and the other pages were driving a herd of war horses, all still saddled.

“In a day or two, someone is going to raise an army,” Gabriel said. “Gelfred says this Du Corse has three hundred lances, and de Vrailly had the same last year.”

“More,” said Gavin.

Ser Michael swore. “And Albans who should know better—I saw men who were my father’s knights. I put Kit Crowbeard on his arse not fifteen minutes ago—the traitor.”

“Kit Crowbeard?” Gabriel asked.

“One of my father’s retinue knights. His professionals.” Michael frowned. “Did Ranald’s people save my da?”

“Ask me when we link up with Ranald,” Gabriel said. “I told him to keep his men away from the lists unless… well, he must have.” Gabriel looked south. “I hope he did. Otherwise, they’re all taken.”

Bad Tom nodded. “Aye, I didn’t linger to watch, but they were disarming the Royal Guard as soon as they could.”

Gabriel signalled a halt.

“Everyone change horses,” he ordered. He dismounted and held out his good hand to help Blanche, who ignored him and slid to the ground with neat athleticism.

“I must go to my lady,” she said. She ran off along the road.

Gabriel stretched his back and watched the distant camp. “Where’s Gelfred?” he asked Tom.

Tom Lachlan just shook his head. “No one came to the rendezvous,” he said. “Mind ye, we had to go find you!”

Gabriel winced. “Not my finest hour.”

“You found yersel’ a nice piece. You should keep her,” Tom said, in his friendly way.

“Or,” Chris Foliak put in, “if’n you don’t want her—”

“Gentlemen,” the captain snapped, “if you are quite through—”

“He’s just like himself,” Ser Danved said loudly to Ser Bertran.

“I need a rouncy or two for the ladies. Unless Nell plans to take the good sister all the way to Lorica.” He managed a smile at Amicia. “What happened?” he asked.

“The King?” she replied. “Oh, Gabriel…”

Blanche ran back to them. She curtsied in the dust of the road with a fine straight back.

“Look here, Captain,” she said. “Sir.”

Gabriel managed a bow which made his back burn as if a fire had been lit under it.

“My lady—the Queen—she can’t go much further,” Blanche said. “She’s too proud to say, but she could birth at any moment.” Blanche looked around. “You’re all a fine lot—any of you fathers? Blood and fighting brings on the birth, so they say.”

Gabriel was still watching the camp.

There was movement. They had the fire out, and he saw the glint of armour.

“Eight hours of light left,” he said. Nell brought him Abraham, his oldest and calmest riding horse. He swung into the saddle. “Nell, you’re a peach,” he said.

Nell blushed.

He rode along the column to the Queen, sitting with her back against a small tree. She looked serene—and deathly pale.

Gabriel dismounted on willpower alone and managed a creaky bow. “Your grace—I can’t stop here any longer or we will all be taken or killed.”

Her marvellous brown-gold eyes met his. “I know,” she said. “Blanche loves me, but she’s trying to mother me.” The Queen extended a hand and Gabriel got her to her feet. “I can keep him in for another few hours—days, if I must.”

“You are a woman of power,” he said.

“Of course,” she said.

“I healed you last year, when the arrow struck you,” he said. “That’s how I know. I wonder if you could share some of your
ops
with us—with me and with Sister Amicia.”

The Queen nodded. “Of course—whatever I can do.”

Gabriel reached out and
touched her and entered into her palace—a veritable fortress. He’d never seen a palace so well guarded. In the middle of it rose walls of solid, shining gold—pure gold, so well fitted that he could scarcely see where each gold stone fitted to the last.

She led him—slim and lovely—through a doubly barred gate and into the citadel.

“Is it true—that my love is dead?” she asked.

Gabriel nodded. “Killed by an arrow,” he said.

She took a deep breath—even in the
aethereal
, and pursed her lips. “Later, I will see if I will mourn,” she said.

In the midst of her citadel—a storybook citadel with trellises of fruit and birds on trees—there was a well, and she dipped clear water—pure
ops
—from the well and gave it to him, and he drank.