The Last Knight (9 page)

Chant didn’t care. His muscles bunched beneath my legs; he planted his back feet, spun, and cantered toward the boar, who was still savaging Tipple’s pack. I hoped his weakened leg was up to this.

Mayhap the drumming hooves alerted it, or it may have decided the pack was finally dead. The boar lifted its head and charged.

I leaned out of the saddle and swung down, aiming close to the skull, where the spine wasn’t so well protected. But the angle was wrong, and my blade sliced its shoulder. Most creatures would have found this a serious injury; it only made the boar mad. It spun in place, slashing at Chant’s hind legs.

Chant’s kick, better aimed than my sword stroke, sent the boar tumbling. Unfortunately I hadn’t expected it, and since I was still unbalanced it sent me tumbling too.

I hit the ground rolling and came to my feet in one movement, passionately grateful that nobles’ sons were still expected to learn what my scholarly brother, Benton, called “that ridiculously outdated nonsense.”

The boar’s blank eyes regarded me. I know animals don’t think this way, but I swear I saw pleasure in them, satisfaction that he had brought me down where he could reach me.

Before this, events had followed too quickly for fear, but now a chill rose from my heart and spread through my limbs, draining them of speed and strength.

The boar charged, quick, so quick I hadn’t time to do more than slash at it as I leapt aside. My sword missed clean, and the boar turned in its tracks, swinging its heavy head to catch my leg with one sharp tusk.

Pain blazed up my leg, but my sword swung in blind, instinctive retaliation, and this time found its mark. I heard the wet crunch of bone as my blade sliced through its spine.

The boar sank to its belly and I fell back against a rock, gritting my teeth. Warm blood flowed down my ankle. I had to assess the wound and bind it, but I didn’t want to. Not just yet. I shut my eyes.

“Watch out!” Fisk cried.

My eyes snapped open as the boar lumbered to its feet and charged again.

I wish I could say that I leapt to my feet, full ready to fight. The truth is that I fell backward over the rock. Had the boar been whole, it would have finished me.

As it was, I had time to struggle to my feet and watch in horror as it stumbled around the rock, seeking me. The great muscles in its neck weren’t strong enough to lift its head without the aid of a spine, so its snout dragged in the dirt, but still it came on. The boar should have been dead, long seconds dead, and I realized, with a sinking dread that put my previous fear to shame, that it was magica.

No wonder the beast had been so fast. But a severed spine crippled even a magica boar. It could barely walk, much less slash with its tusks.

I set my teeth, stepped forward, and methodically chopped through its neck. The half dozen blows needed to sever the head from the body seemed to take forever. I could feel the magic now, pulsing and raging as the beast, finally, died.

I watched blood flow from the severed neck and sink into the dark mulch of the forest floor. Everything around us—the leaves, the rock, the boar, and I—was spattered with blood. My whole body shook.

With a great rustling of branches, Fisk climbed down from a nearby tree. I was pleased to see he’d had the sense to climb out of danger, but ’twas a distant feeling. Nothing seemed quite real to me.

“It was d-d-dead.” His teeth were chattering. He never took his eyes from the corpse at my feet, as if he expected it to come after us even now. “It was dead, but it went right on attacking you.”

“It was magica, Fisk,” I explained. “Even a real boar will go on fighting after ’tis sorely wounded, and that property is enhanced by magic. It was magica. And I killed it.”

O
n Furred God’s Night—the longest night of the year, when the moons rule the world—people shut themselves into their homes and tell stories of how the gods punish those who destroy magica without sacrifice. As I grew older, I’d discounted most of those stories, but now every one of them came rushing back. I wished my memory wasn’t quite so good.

Sir Michael just stood there, looking as if he’d mislaid a spoon or something. I wanted him on the edge of hysterics, like me. I opened my mouth to snarl at him and realized that I was right—he was
too
calm. Some sort of shock? Something deeper than my jangled nerves. Something to do with magic?

“Sir?” I laid a hand on his shoulder. His head turned slowly, and his eyes were as blank as his face. “Sir, I think we should leave now.”

It was easier said than done. Chanticleer, bless his big feet, hadn’t strayed. But Tipple, though I couldn’t blame her for it, had broken her tether and run off.

I thought about chasing after her, but the last of the sunlight had gone and only the pale glow of the Green Moon wavered between the tree trunks. The stillness had a watchful feel to it, like when you’re breaking into a warehouse under the eyes of the city guard and they’re just waiting for the right moment to nab you.

Sir Michael felt it too; he shivered as the moonlight touched him and looked up, scanning the sky.

“Only blood redeems blood,” he said softly. “The Creature Moon rises late these days—in about two hours, I think. It…it might be a good idea to find a Savant before then.”

His voice was small and, for the first time since we’d met, unsure. He stood beside the boar’s body as if his feet were glued in place.

“Then we’ll find one,” I said, grateful for the years of practice that let me flood my voice with confidence, no matter what I felt. “Just tell me what to do.”

I took a few minutes to bandage the bleeding gash in his calf—it wasn’t deep, which was a good thing because Sir Michael was no help. I had to pull him from the clearing bodily, but once away he recovered enough to mount Chanticleer, unstrap and drop his pack, and help me up behind the saddle.

With my arm around his waist, I could feel him shaking, though the night was not yet cold. He looked back at the dead boar.

“So where do we find a Savant?” I demanded. He neither spoke nor moved, so I gave Chanticleer a kick, and the horse lurched into an overburdened stroll.

“Where do we find a Savant?” I repeated. “We don’t often see them in the city, and I need to know what to do if you turn into a chipmunk or something.”

Sir Michael laughed at that and lifted the reins, urging Chanticleer to a more purposeful walk. I sagged like wet cloth with relief. I’d been afraid something was already working on him, and I’d had no idea what to do about it.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be
that
extreme,” he said, though he didn’t sound sure. “And we’ve probably got some time before anything happens.”

“Two hours, you said.”

“What?” Sir Michael stiffened under my hands.

“Two hours. You said that we had the two hours before the Creature Moon rises to find a Savant.”

Sir Michael twisted in the saddle, eyes searching my face. “
I
said that?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Why? Is it coming up sooner?”

“No.” Sir Michael turned and urged Chanticleer forward again. “No, the time’s about right. I just don’t remember saying it.”

Sir Michael told me that the villagers would have some way to contact the nearest Savant, though the methods varied widely. The next village was only a twenty-minute ride north of the main road, but it seemed to take far longer. Sir Michael stopped Chanticleer at the gate of the first house. The shuttered windows were dark.

“Fisk, I shouldn’t go to that house. Suppose something happens? Suppose they have children?”

Only blood redeemed blood. I wished I could forget the story I’d once heard, about a farm family that inadvertently burned out a nest of magica rats.

Of course, Michael’s punishment for killing the boar would be different. Those who destroyed magica always suffered, but one of the things that made it so terrifying was that no one could predict exactly what would happen. Or where. Or when. Or whether an innocent squire might be swept up in it.

“I’ll go.” I untied his purse strings with a practiced ease that I hoped he didn’t notice, and hurried to pound on the door.

It took a while for the householder to come downstairs, for he’d stopped to put on his britches and grab a stout oak staff. His wife, in her night robe, came behind him carrying a lamp.

I saw no need to waste time on courtesies. “My master needs to see a Savant. Fast.” I held out two gleaming silver roundels, Sir Michael having given the last of the gold to a stable lad, whom he could have easily dickered down. The householder’s gaze went from my tense face to Sir Michael’s shadowy form waiting at his gate.

“There’s a Savant that lives nearby.” He reached out and pocketed the coins. “But I don’t know about fast. When we need him, we climb to the top of Lurs Hill, across the stream there, and pound on the hollow log. Three raps, wait, three raps, wait, then three more. He comes, but not always fast.”

I looked across the moonlit valley to the hill. It wasn’t far off, but neither was the rise of the Creature Moon.

“Three raps, three times. Thanks.” I had turned to go when the housewife laid a hand on my arm.

“Don’t look so frightened. We’ve been good to the Savant—he comes as fast as he’s needed. Your friend will be all right.”

I didn’t try to explain that I was worried for myself, not my employer. I’d ridden too close to that hide this afternoon, and the boar had gone for me, not Sir Michael—who had killed it.

Sir Michael
had
killed it, when he could easily have taken Chanticleer and fled, leaving me to fend for myself. It would have been the sensible thing to do. I bet the thought never even crossed his mind.

It would have crossed mine.

The ride up the hill took far too long, for Sir Michael refused to abandon me. I might have been safer away from him, but I didn’t argue. Sir Michael’s Gifts were speaking to him, and ignoring them just then struck me as a really bad idea.

The hilltop was wooded, like everything else in this forsaken wilderness. It was Chanticleer who found the narrow path that led to an old fallen tree, with all the bark beaten off by the villagers’ summonses.

Sir Michael eyed the quiet woods warily, and since he was more likely to recognize an oncoming threat than I, I slid off Chanticleer’s rump and fumbled through the leaves for a stone. My hands closed around one, river smooth, likely brought by the villagers for this very purpose.

Thud-thud-thud.
I had expected a deep, vibrant drum sound that would travel through the forest for miles, but this was scarcely louder than a carpenter’s hammer.
Thud-thud-thud!
I struck harder this time, but the sound was still too soft to carry far.

I looked at Sir Michael, but he sat motionless in the saddle, his eyes searching the darkness between the trees.

I took the stone in both hands and swung as hard as I could.
THUD.
Louder, but still not loud enough to carry.
THUD.
How could this possibly rouse a Savant, who knows how far off, and probably asleep as well? I raised the stone high, prepared to bring it down with all my might, when a gentle hand reached from behind me and clasped my arm.

“No need to break it.”

I yelped, jumped, and dropped the stone, which barely missed my head.

The man who released my arm was small—shorter than I and far thinner. Hair that looked as if it had never been cut fell in mossy locks, and his beard almost reached his belt. His clothes, once sturdy and well made, were now so worn that the cloth around the seams had begun to fray. Hair, beard, and clothes were all clean, however, and I perceived that the housewife had told the truth—the villagers took good care of him.

As a child I knew nothing of Savants, but in several years of roaming from town to town I’ve learned a thing or two. The country folk don’t really take care of their Savants—it’s a matter of trade. When you need to be certain there’s no magica in the field you want to plow or a stand of timber you want to cut, or if you want to give your spring planting a head start or offer thanks for a good hunt, you find a Savant.

Savants have no magic themselves, of course—no normal humans have magic. But they can tell you what sacrifice to make and they intercede—with nature, magic, or maybe with the gods themselves. No one knows for certain what the Savants serve, except the Savants, and they aren’t saying. Then you reward the Savant: food, clothes, blankets, a knife—they have no use for money—and they wander back into the wilderness, where they’re said to live more primitively than the desert savages.

They say Savants were perfectly ordinary people until the call came and they took to roaming the woods more and more often—until they abandoned homes, families, sometimes even wealth, and vanished into the forest.

Some say they find other Savants who teach them the lore of wild things. Some say the plants and animals themselves do the teaching. But whatever the truth may be, a Savant is the only one who can determine the proper sacrifice to redeem the destruction of magica.

This one gazed at me mildly; the distance in his eyes made him look a little mad. He turned away, and I saw that he’d brought Tipple with him—her broken halter rope was frayed, but she hadn’t come to harm. In fact, something in her spotted clown face made her look quite pleased with herself.

It’s quite a trick to lead a horse out of a forest without making a sound.

Sir Michael was surprised, too, but then his startled expression gave way to vast relief. He slid from Chanticleer’s back and started to speak, but the Savant held up a hand to stop him and approached Chanticleer instead.

First he stroked the gelding’s muzzle, muttering to him, and Chanticleer huffed softly back. He checked the bit, to be sure it wasn’t a cruel one, I suppose. Then he spent several moments running his hand over Chanticleer’s weak leg, making me very glad Sir Michael hadn’t pushed the beast to get us here.

If Sir Michael found anything odd in this performance, he didn’t show it, though he was shifting from foot to foot in impatience when the Savant straightened.

“What was it?” he asked Sir Michael calmly.

“A boar. We found a piece of magica hide in our pack. It must have been planted there, for we didn’t—”

The Savant cut him off with a gesture, his expression saying clearly that it didn’t matter. Unlike man’s justice, nature—or magic, or the gods—only cares about results.

“Come.” He turned and walked into the forest, leading us down the hill, away from the village. It wasn’t easy to follow him, for we had to lead Chanticleer and Tipple around some of the logs that he stepped over. He never looked back to see if we were able to follow, which annoyed me. But Sir Michael stuck to his heels like a well-trained hound, and I wasn’t about to be left alone out there.

I have little sense of direction wandering through trackless woods in the middle of the night, so I didn’t realize where we were going until I saw the clearing, the blood-spattered rock, and the boar’s body. He had led us across country, straight to the spot. No one had told him where it was.

The back of my neck prickled, and Tipple, sensing my unease, nuzzled my collar.

Then the small, tan disc of the Creature Moon rose and even I, Giftless as I am, felt the change as the golden light flooded down, and a second shadow stretched out from the trees. It’s well known that the power of the gods is far stronger when their moons rise in the sky, but on this night, I swear I
felt
that power. And I wasn’t the only one.

The Savant stepped forward hastily and knelt by the corpse of the boar, laying one hand on its torso and the other on its head. Sir Michael dropped Chanticleer’s reins, wrapping his arms around himself as if he were cold. The wild, sullen, judging tension that had come with the moonrise seemed to ease—not vanish, but withdraw into a waiting, watching stillness.

The Savant sighed and gave the boar’s head a pat, as if in apology or farewell. Then he drew his knife, pulled down the boar’s lower lip, and slit its gum at the base of one long, curved tusk. Only a small seep of red marked the cut, for the thing was already bled dry. The Savant reversed the knife and smashed its hilt into the boar’s jaw, cracking bone, and then snapped the tusk free with a single strong twist.

He stood and offered the tusk to Sir Michael, a six-inch ivory spike with a ragged end. Sir Michael took it, his face filled with questions. The Savant pointed at a nearby bush and said, “Dig.”

Sir Michael dug, using the tusk and his hands—bare hands, for the Savant wouldn’t let me bring him gloves.

Wild pigs must like the roots of that plant. As soon as Sir Michael chopped out three of the thick, white stems and cast them into the undergrowth, the Savant made him fill in the hole and then led him to another bush, where he repeated the process.

Seeing we were going to be some time at this, I unsaddled the horses and gathered the torn and trampled remains of Tipple’s pack. Sir Michael’s sword lay by the rock, and I cleaned and sheathed it. I asked the Savant if I should help, for I had ridden nearest the hide and I had been the one the boar attacked, but he just shook his head so I let it go.

He did permit me to bring Sir Michael water, since digging up roots with an ivory spike and your bare hands is cursed hard work. Sir Michael’s face gleamed with sweat, even in the moonlight, and his hands left grimy smudges when he wiped it.

“Dig,” the Savant told him.

The Creature Moon rose and the night wore on. I watched for a while, then wandered off to find the pack we’d dumped from Chanticleer’s saddle. The feeling of danger had faded some time ago; the woods held only the natural eeriness of night. The Creature Moon rose until it shone straight through the trees, frosting the boar’s corpse with muted gold.