The Fell Sword (97 page)

The priest muttered, and shuddered. And raised his hands, and prayed. And prayed.

And the boy died.

Father Arnaud rose from his knees and let a long sigh escape him. Then he made the sign of the cross over the boy’s forehead, and said, ‘Christ be with you on your journey. Know no further pain, but only joy.’ He walked back to another blood-soaked pile of straw, once a man called Lingcropper. But this time he didn’t bother to try his injured powers. ‘I’ll just rewrap that bandage,’ he said cheerfully.

Gabriel watched the priest, and wanted to say something. But he couldn’t think what it was. So in the end, he only stood a moment with his hand on the man’s shoulder. And then he went to find Mag.

Mag was sitting on her chair where she’d collapsed after the last hermetical medical miracle. Her daughter Sukey was by her side; Kaitlin de Towbray held her hand. And of all men, Bad Tom stood at her back.

Mag looked up. ‘I’m not going to explode,’ she said.

Gabriel Muriens took her free hand. ‘I won’t pretend that didn’t come to my mind.’

Mag looked away. ‘It had to have happened sometime. A truly powerful practitioner loses their wits? It would be terrible. Christ defend us.’

He knelt by her a while. Suddenly, and without warning, Kaitlin – heavily pregnant Kaitlin – burst into tears with a great moan and whirl of sobbing, and in a heartbeat Mag and Sukey joined her.

Gabriel Muriens was capable of tears. His weren’t very loud, but there were quite a few of them.

But long before the sobs or the Lanthorn keening were done, Tom grabbed his shoulder. ‘You need to drink,’ he said. He marched the Megas Ducas out of the barn and out of the mud and blood and faeces and into the green fields beyond. The Duke’s pavilion was set up on clean, green grass.

Tom guided the Red Knight to a stool and put him on it. Toby came and washed his hands, and he watched the old blood come away. He watched it a bit too closely.

‘Blood under my nails, Tom,’ he said.

‘Aye. Consequence of killing folk,’ Tom answered.

Toby poured wine. Others were coming over. He could see Ser Alison, who had, of course distinguished herself in the fighting against the Easterners, and Gelfred, who’d commanded that last operation. His mind whirled a bit. He settled for solid things.

‘Why’d you go to Mag?’ he asked.

Tom stretched out his legs. ‘Oh, comfort the widow,’ he said, as if this was a natural thought. ‘Offered to marry her,’ he continued. ‘She said no,’ he added, as if miffed.

‘Don’t tell Sauce,’ the Red Knight said. He raised his wine cup.

‘Old Gods, you
are
an evil bastard,’ Tom said, and slammed his cup on the table. ‘This crap’s too thin. I have mead.’ He walked off as Sauce came up.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Sauce asked as she ducked under the tent edge. She had been batting her eyelashes at Count Zac, who was performing mounted tricks like a much younger man out in the field.

‘You know how he is,’ Gabriel said.

An hour later, they were well into the post-battle drink. Bad Tom stood at the table, a great horn of mead in his hand, and his laugh boomed over the camp. ‘And then the loon says: stop fighting!’ He looked at his prisoner, Ser Christos, who had an arm in a sling and a bruise which covered half his face. ‘Mind you, thanks to yon, I was bleeding like a stuck pig. That was a mickle blow, messire.’

Ser Christos bowed.

Ser Michael could see the man was pained, like all of the prisoners, at being present at a victory celebration. His inherent gentility won out over his need to boast. ‘Ser knight, there’s many of us who’d like to have the power to put a lance in Bad Tom.’

Ser Gavin laughed, and Tom joined the laughter. ‘They do!’ He laughed. He turned and cocked an eyebrow at the priest, who looked more like sixty than forty. ‘And I hear we’re all to call him Ser Gabriel now, eh? Not lord high god of all? Not Duke any more?’

Ser Gabriel frowned, and then made himself laugh – at himself. ‘I liked being Duke,’ he said.

Father Arnaud drank more. ‘You’ll be a better man as Gabriel.’

Ser Alcaeus looked puzzled. ‘You are still the Duke,’ he said.

Ser Gabriel was looking at Tom. ‘There’s men who feel that there is no rank higher than that of knighthood, Ser Alcaeus,’ he said. ‘And there’s men who feel it’s time I used my given name.’ He looked at Father Alcaeus.

Tom nodded. ‘Time
and
time, I’d say. Ser Gabriel. I like the sound of it.’

‘That puts me in mind of something,’ Ser Gabriel said. ‘Toby, fetch my sword!’

Toby went quickly, his face showing a boy who didn’t dare to hope. But he was doomed to disappointment.

The Red Knight drew his sword and pointed it at Long Paw. ‘Come here and kneel,’ he said.

‘You wouldn’t!’ Long Paw said. But he was dragged by other men, nor was it so much against his will. ‘You know what I was,’ he said, from his knees, with dignity.

‘No worse than what any of us were,’ said the Red Knight. ‘By my knighthood, and the power of my right hand, I dub thee knight.’

‘There’s another good archer lost for ever,’ muttered Cully, but he gave his mate a hug hard enough to hurt his back. ‘You bastard,’ he said.

After that, there was some serious drinking. Captain Dariusz, who proved to have an excellent signing voice, raised it in an ancient hymn – a marvellous tune, that they all had to learn. Count Zac already knew it, and translated the words to Ser Alison, who grew still.

They drank more wine, and debated the strategy of the campaign.

Kaitlin came to see her husband, and looked around at all the men who bowed to her. ‘Don’t you talk about anything but war?’ she asked, cheeks hot.

Count Zac bowed to her when her husband was tongue-tied. ‘My lady, we but pour earth and wine on the dead.’

She shook her head.

Derkensun, who was drunker than most of them, grinned at her. ‘I have decided to get married!’ he said.

Kaitlin smiled politely at the tattooed giant. ‘That’s different from war,’ she said.

When she was gone, Bad Tom licked his lips and grinned. ‘You’re going to ruin war as a sport,’ he said. ‘All this
strategia
and
taktika.
What will you leave us?’

‘It seemed bloody enough today,’ Gabriel said.

At which Tom looked disgusted. ‘You’re carving the fun right out of war. We outmanoeuvre them. They surrender. Now they fight for us? Christ on the cross. Next we’ll settle these things with dice.’

‘Don’t you have a herd to drive?’ Ser Gabriel asked. He sounded better – better than any of them had heard him in months. Despite the dark circles under his eyes. And the impressive intake of wine. Or perhaps because of it.

‘Aye. And drive it I will. Being I’m the Drover.’ He grinned. ‘This was like a nice little rest. No beeves to watch making dung. No sheep – Christ, I hate sheep.’ He slammed back his horn. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to come to Harndon, now? Ranald is determined to take the beeves all the way. You made him a knight. Now he has another beast in view.’

Ranald coloured, and Ser Gabriel laughed. ‘She’s not a beast – she’s much better looking than that.’ He stood up.

Behind him the whole camp was moving. It was three camps, really. The hospital had grown to cover all the buildings of the farmstead, and the defeated army’s tentage shared the ground with the victorious army’s brush shelters. ‘Can I at least ask why we couldn’t cut the fucker’s bodyguard to ribbons,’ Bad Tom asked. ‘Fair is fair. They lost.’

Ser Gabriel took a pull of wine. ‘They weren’t the enemy. They aren’t now. In a way they’re all my vassals.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s why Demetrius had to die.’

Ser Gavin shook his head. ‘It had to be done.’ But he sounded unsure.

Ser Gabriel nodded. ‘You may have the right of it, but I’ve a glut of death just now.’ His voice was flat. ‘It’s interesting to parse the morality of the thing. Demetrius was merely Aeskepiles’ pawn – but I’d say he murdered his father of his own free will. Where does that put him?’

‘Hell,’ said Ser Milus. He glanced at Ser Alcaeus. The Morean knight nodded his agreement.

‘The Emperor would never have let him reclaim the duchy,’ he said. ‘His hands were stained with his father’s blood. Exile for life was the very best he might have hoped for.’

‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel said coldly. ‘But the Emperor is not of this world. And never is not always a long time, in politics.’ He shrugged. ‘I had to be sure.’

Toby walked around the table pouring – Gelfred took a little, and Alison, recovering from an Easterner arrow in her left biceps, declined. Derkensun had his poured full.

They were all there, or most of them were. Except, of course, for Jacques and Jehan and John le Bailli and all the others who would never be there again.

The Red Knight raised his cup. ‘The Thrakians were never the enemy. Now I hope they’re allies. If I understand it – if I’ll
ever
understand it – Andronicus intended to rebuild Morea. But Aeskepiles intended to start a civil war which would destroy the Empire’s remaining military potential. The Wild is
right there.
’ He pointed to the north. ‘Imagine the Wild in Liviapolis. Imagine Thorn there.’

The air shivered.

Bad Tom pulled a heavy dagger out of his belt. ‘Name him again and let’s see how he bleeds.’

Ranald rolled his eyes.

Ser Michael leaned over, a hand in the small of his back. For a moment, with bloodshot eyes and a back arched in pain, he looked like a much older man. ‘So we won?’ he asked cautiously.

‘We certainly didn’t lose,’ the Red Knight said.

‘Now we rebuild the Morean army?’ Ser Gavin asked.

Michael looked at his Captain with pleading eyes. Instead of those eyes slipping away, Ser Gabriel met his look and smiled.

‘No. We’ll leave that condotta to other men. We’re going south with Tom. To a tournament. In Harndon.’

‘A tournament? What? Fighting for sport? What kind of foolishness is that?’ Tom asked, but he was grinning.

‘Just so, Tom,’ the Red Knight said, and raised his cup. ‘We’re headed to a tournament of fools.’

Acknowledgements

I’m grateful to Gillian Redfearn at Gollancz for giving me the chance – after twenty years as a writer – to write fantasy – the genre I wanted to write from age 13. I’m also grateful to her assistant Charlie Panayiotou for a great deal of support and a thousand e-mails, and to Shelley Power, my agent; Rebecca Lovatt, my publicist, Dmitry Bondarenko, my graphic artist, Jessie Durham, my web-designer and hostess (is that really the right term) and Steven Sandford, who made the long-awaited maps. All of them are friends, most of them are fellow reenactors and swords-people, and role-players, and fantasy readers. I’m grateful not only for their work and enthusiasm, but for the ‘team’ aspects of this project. Just as an example, Steve’s maps clarified for me some details that – yes, I’m not in denial – I had wrong in geography. Especially in the area around the Green Hills. Dmitry’s art has literally inspired – and clarified – not just what people look like, but what some of the Wild looks like, too. Jessie’s website has resulted in fan mail which makes all of us feel as if what we’re doing has worth – well, mostly – and Rebecca has not only landed interviews that result in me learning more about ‘my’ world but has also allowed my daughter to concoct an alias. But that’s another story.

I’m also grateful to a host of people and places for inspiration and help; I’ll hit the high points and forget some truly wonderful people, and I apologise. But in no particular order – Maurizio Oliboni and Giulia Griogoli and all the amazing people who put on the ‘Torneo del Cigno Bianco’ in Verona; all the members of the reenacting company we call Hoplologia (or maybe the Company of Select Marksmen, or maybe the Companions of St Eustachios); Greg Mele, Tasha Kelly, Nicole Allen, Joe Harley and all the other reenactors/chivalry enthusiasts who pre-read Fell Sword in its various phases; I hope I made all the changes; my sister-in-law Nancy, who tried very hard to improve the copy-editing; Giorgos Kafetsis of Alexandrouplois, Greece, and Giannis, Xsenia and Smaro (and even Hypolita, as yet unborn!) for all night conversations on the late Byzantine Empire and for an introduction to a 14th century Greek castle – I hope that my fantasy version of Greece and Serbia meets your expectations; all the reenactors, Medieval, Ancient Greek and 18th century, whose work informs my writing, and all the craftspeople whose work fires me at least in part with greed . . . JT Palikko, Mark Vickers, Craig Sitch, the folks at Albion and Arms and Armor; Eric Schatzel, Ward Oles, the Brevaks and all the folks ‘At the Eastern Door’ (check it out for some of the most amazing items) Peter Fuller, Brian Scott Wilson, Christian Darce and Jiri Klepac, Tasha Kelly (now for sewing and not reading) . . . really, these people populate my fantasy with artefacts that I can describe, hold, swish through the air or put on my back to keep the rain off or to ward off blows or practise using.

But skills are as essential to descriptive prose as artefacts; so I’d like to thank Guy Windsor, Tom Leoni, Greg Mele and Chris Verwijmeren for lessons, expertise, and authorial support on weapons, techniques, and styles; the folks at Les Maitre D’Armes in Ottawa/Hull who run Borealis, and the folks at the Chicago Swordplay Guild who run WMAW.

Really, it’s too much fun, writing fantasy. Thanks to all. Maybe we should do it again?

Toronto 2013

A Gollancz eBook

Text copyright © Miles Cameron 2013
Maps copyright © Steven Sandford 2013
Interior illustrations copyright © Dmitry Bondarenko 2012, 2013
All rights reserved.

The right of Miles Cameron to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H9EA
An Hachette UK Company

This eBook first published in 2013 by Gollancz.

A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.

isbn
978 0 575 11335 0

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