The Shepherd of Weeds (35 page)

Grig and his trestlemen companions were shouting orders and readying various contraptions from the meager shelter of his canvas-topped cart, repairing ones that could be saved, lost in a sea of clashing strawmen. Downed weather balloons littered the area, their empty canvas bladders sagging dejectedly, pierced with burr-like arrows. Atop his tinkerer’s cart, a tattered flag blew—the three-pronged Poison Ivy.

“The gates remain closed!” Grig lamented, shouting in the ear of his companion, his apprentice Crimble.

“What?” Crimble cupped his hand to his ear, but thought better of it and returned his attention to the taut wire of a loaded springform catapult beneath him. At his feet were
burlap sacks of slingshots ready to be paired with giant spiked chestnuts.

Grig motioned at the black, solid barricade and then gave up. It was patently obvious that the gates remained closed, and further discussions on this topic were fruitless. What had become of Peps and Lumpen? he wondered, shivering. He waved away a small dandelion spore that floated before him. Several were snagged in his wiry hair.

All around them, chaos.

A guttural roar echoed through the dark city from behind the closed gates—whatever awaited them there was not going to be pleasant.

Before the gateway, fallen scarecrows littered the battlefield, vultures perched upon them—pulling their straw innards out with hideous abandon. Strange, slick monkeys surged from the vultures’ backs, gleefully picking at the spoils, rooting about for wounded birds. They covered the battlefield like swarms of greasy rats.

The enormous stones that made up the foundation of the heavy walls were piled high with the burning embers of spent logs, where they had been thrown like fiery comets from the high outposts. Thatch drifted through the air. The garments and primitive weapons of perished strawmen glowed in the bonfires. Against the smooth walls, the rope ladders were nothing now but an outline of ash and cobweb.

Cecil had not mentioned to Grig any possibility for
retreat, but the trestleman, his heart a dismal pit within his small chest, could take no more.

“Fall back!” he shouted, his small voice carrying no farther than the nearest shadow.

Dandelion parachutes swirled about the air, covering the atrocities before them in a layer of white lace.

“Fall back!” he called again, with all his might.

His tiny voice was answered, not by the mute scarecrows, nor the shrieking of the caucus still waging war above, but by a low rumble of the earth.

“What evil befalls us now?” he called desperately to Crimble.

But Crimble did not see him, did not hear him. He was staring up ahead. For the walls were cleaving as great chains pulled the heaving doors aside. A grouping of startled Outriders fell from their peak, cloaks streaming out behind them, smashing to the ground. And when the gates were opened, the dark city of Rocamadour awaited, its twisted streets and soaring spire lurking within the thick shadows.

Before it all, a figure, framed in the giant doorway.

A horse and rider.

owan watched mutely as Clothilde replaced the shining hairpin in her silvery hair, the one she had used to open the gates of Rocamadour and, once before that, with Ivy, an icy lock atop the Craggy Burls. After she had deposited him unceremoniously on the dark cobbles, the former taster attempted to regain his bearings. The very sight of Ivy’s mother upon such a noble beast as Calyx, resplendent in their war finery, left him dumbfounded. And while he recovered, a few more brightly shining constellations burnt from Clothilde’s dress, which fanned out beneath her.

“You!” Rowan was incapable of finishing his thought. He was both grateful and repelled. Ivy’s mother at one time had poisoned him capriciously, to test Ivy’s powers. But here she was, having saved him from certain death—the gates
to the impenetrable city of Rocamadour stood open behind her.

Rowan fell into a deep, shaky bow.

“Rise, Rowan Truax,” she commanded.

And then, as if to illustrate her duplicity, she summoned a slight figure hiding in the shadows, who Rowan recognized with great confusion as Hemsen Dumbcane, the forger from the Knox.

Rowan recoiled, his sharp spurs scraping the ground as he tensed.

“Rowan Truax?” Hemsen Dumbcane repeated. The forger inspected Rowan carefully, a slight leer upon his face.

In the battleground, through the gates, loud cheers could be heard, along with a few off-key trumpets. As word of the breach spread, Rowan remembered his duty. The doors were open—but the battle had just begun.

Dumbcane moved to one side of the gatehouse and fumbled with a set of keys. Finally, a pair of tall doors opened. These were made for the gatekeeper and delivered quick access to the topside of the walls. The spiraling passage led up at a steep angle, and a great chandelier hung beside the entrance, but it was a sad fixture—long forgotten, abandoned to dust and disuse.

Without a word, Clothilde rode off, the silver from Calyx’s shoes sending small shooting sparks into the darkness. As she passed beneath the darkened ring of lights, the chandelier
blazed to life again, its crystal prisms and flickering lamplight a salve to the pressing shadows.

A clear voice floated back to the taster. “Now is your chance to redeem yourself, Rowan Truax,” Clothilde called. “Command your army to storm the gates.”

he warhorse Calyx galloped up the remainder of the sloping passage, emerging finally in the open air at a far section of the outpost. The wall that circled Rocamadour was high—but it did eventually end, and its topside formed an open and well-paved run, and it was upon this parapet the Outriders patrolled. This run was punctuated here and there with turrets, as well as large stone gargoyles perched upon a jagged rail.

Calyx was finding that the air was caustic; straggling weather balloons bobbed heavily, armed with Grig’s noxious combinations of blisterbush and bitter mustard, and the stallion snorted, nostrils flared. Birds—great ones, small ones—dived and swerved about these lazy, floating springforms, clashing with the careering vultures and the ink monkeys.

A small bird alighted on Calyx’s bejeweled mane. It had a beautiful song—even through the clatter and discord all around them. A warbler, he guessed.

The bird sang, and his mistress answered in low tones. Raising her head high, Clothilde steered Calyx toward the dark side of the city, away from the battle that was pouring into the open corridor below them with the gates now breached. His silver-shod shoes clattered against the cut stone.

They were not alone.

The wall was a chaotic place for the horse and rider—Outriders, in their black billowing robes and flailing beards, and other dark figures of the Guild scurried from rampart to rampart, monitoring the battle playing out beneath them. Occasional fires scorched the air as these men struck their flints, releasing liquid flames down on those unfortunates below.

Calyx knew of these guards called Outriders—men in dark robes with guttural language. Still, he had never seen so many of them—theirs was normally the place that few chose to tread (and horses simply couldn’t): the mazelike crypts beneath the city.

The warhorse towered above even the largest of these cloaked men, and with his mistress guiding him, he felt no fear. They were soon spotted. The horse and rider charged, and when the guards troubled their progress, Clothilde threw them aside with her long spear—dashing them to the ground below.

They galloped the length of the great wall heedless of the
battle playing out about them. The distinction between horse and rider—where one stopped and the other began—was blurred, not only by their blazing attire, but by their wordless communication. An imperceptible touch of his mistress’s knees halted Calyx. They had reached their destination.

They stood before Dumbcane’s blighted gargoyle, overlooking the city below.

The dark soldiers of the Tasters’ Guild were surging along the walkway behind them, closer now than Calyx would have liked—still, Clothilde held him steady. More approached now from the other direction, and the warhorse reared—a splendid sight—pawing the air, sending several of the first line of Outriders to their deaths below.

Clothilde plunged her spear into the air, lashing at the dark statue, and then with the back end of the weapon, knocked down several men. With each fallen enemy, a new star pierced her gown.

The warbler flitted from rampart to rampart, tense and watching.

Again Clothilde struck, and the dreadful gargoyle groaned. Calyx faltered and nearly spooked, his mistress’s hand soothing him. A rending noise followed, and the statue was suddenly gone—vanished—and where it once sat a gaping opening in the facade appeared, followed by a shattering far below. A half smile graced her face. Now, with this small weakness, let the dam break, she thought. She turned, spear raised high, and
jeered at the men—they were scores deep. She dug her heels into her stallion’s side, and he answered in an about-face, his braided tail lashing out as he turned and reared.

Dumbcane had done his job well. Down the Guilds’ servants went—as they rushed for the horse and rider. With a sweep of her silver spear and flash of her whip, a dozen Outriders fell through the jagged break in the wall that once housed the gargoyle. But these first guards were the lucky ones. Those that foolishly lagged behind were treated to the pointed end of her weapon, which pinned them through their scarred throats only to heave them, too, through the break in the wall.

Forty men in all fell like this, and when forty stars appeared on her skirts, Clothilde allowed herself a moment of congratulation. Here was something she was quite good at: war. So much easier than mothering. The birds screeched and called around her—the Keepers of the Prophecy. But Clothilde was nothing if not wise, and she knew, too, fragments of the ancient augury.

A warning trill from the small warbler pierced the air.

Only too late did Clothilde realize that more had come—more Outriders surging at them from behind.

Calyx’s battle instincts fired:
We are trapped
. As the swarms of Outriders ran at them—
An endless enemy
, Calyx realized—Clothilde turned her mount and steered him unflinchingly at the break in the wall. She nodded at the small, earnest warbler.

The warbler sang, its song shrill, and sad.

Clothilde laid her white cheek on her horse’s damp neck, a lather of sweat. She allowed herself that moment, eyes closed, and then she straightened, casting aside her spear. The new horde was upon them.

Faithfully, the horse Calyx allowed himself to be urged forward, picking up speed—a trot, then a canter. Her knees guided him; they had never steered him wrong. The Outriders had bottlenecked, and, tumbling through the impasse, a mountain of the dark creatures were upon them. Calyx galloped, full speed. Looking behind her, Clothilde shook free her silver hair from its pin as Calyx leapt into the thin air—his saddle and war finery shining with the light of a thousand stars. Clothilde’s hair streamed like fallen moonlight all around her.

All this, she knew, was prophesied.

Ivy must succeed at all costs. Clothilde hoped to take as many of the Guilds’ servants with her as she could. And indeed, the enhanced patrol followed them over the edge, rushing through the void after her, a cascade of dark billowing cloaks and confusion, catapulting to the earth below.

A small warbler, Teasel, hovered in the air beside Clothilde and Calyx. He had no song to sing.

And still—even as they fell to their deaths—Calyx believed by the simple touch of his mistress’s hand that yes, a horse can fly.