Amist lay on the valley, white in the morning sun. The banners of the houses of Antea hung limp and damp, their colors darkened and greyed by the thick air. The world smelled of trampled mud and the cold. Geder’s horse shook its head and grunted. He reached forward a gauntleted hand and patted the beast’s shoulder.
His armor had been his father’s once, the bright steel of the plate dimmed a little now where the smith had bent it to more nearly fit Geder’s back. The straps pinched even through the brigandine. The march had been a long, weary foretaste of hell. The pace had never been fast, but it was relentless. From that first hungover morning, he had ridden and walked for four days without more than two short hours’ rest at a time. In the night, he draped a blanket across his shoulders and shivered against the cold. During the day, he sweated. The army passed down the wide green dragon’s road, the tramp of feet against the jade becoming first an annoyance, then a music, then an odd species of silence, before cycling around to annoyance again. With only one horse, he had to spend a fair part of each day walking. A richer man would have brought two or three, even four mounts on the campaign. And plate that hadn’t seen decades of use before he was born. And a tent that kept out the cold. And, just perhaps, a little respect and dignity.
The other titled nobles rode in groups or with their personal retinue. Geder shared their place at the head of the column, but significantly at the rear of the grouping. The supply carts came just behind him, and the infantry and camp followers behind them, though there weren’t many camp followers these days. It said something when a march was too much trouble to be worth a whore’s time.
The order to stop had come last evening an hour before sunset. Geder’s squire had erected his little tent, brought a tin plate of lentils and cheese, and curled up into a small Dartinae ball just outside Geder’s tent flap. Geder had crawled onto his cot, pressed his eyes shut, and prayed for sleep. His dreams had all been about marching. With the first light of dawn, the new order had come: prepare.
All through his boyhood, he had imagined this day. His first real battle. He’d imagined the wind of the charge, the heat and speed of the horse beneath him, the fierce cries of battle in his throat. He hadn’t thought about the numbing hours sitting in the saddle, his armor cooling against him, while the infantry formed, shifted, and re-formed. The noble line of knights, sword and lance at the ready, was a clump of men laughing, trading dirty jokes, and complaining that the food was either sparse or spoiled. It felt less like the noble proving ground of war than the ninth day of an eight-day hunt. Geder’s spine was a single burning ache from his ass to the base of his skull. His thighs were chapped raw, his jaw popped every time he yawned, and his mouth tasted like sour cheese. His squire stood by his side, Geder’s battle lance in his hands, shield slung across his back, and a wary expression on his hairless face.
“Palliako!”
Geder shifted. Sir Alan Klin rode a huge black charger, the steel of its barding all enameled red. The man’s armor glittered with dew and the silver worked into a dragon’s wing design. He could have stepped out of an ancient war rhyme.
“My lord?” Geder said.
“You’re with the charge on the west. The scouts report it as the mercenary forces Vanai’s bought, so it should be the easiest fighting.”
Geder frowned. That seemed wrong, but fatigue made it hard to think through. Mercenaries were professional fighters and veterans to a man. And that was where the fighting would be easy? Klin read his expression, leaned to the side, and spat.
“They aren’t protecting their homes and wives,” Klin said. “Just follow where Kalliam goes and try not to knock your horse into anyone. Knees get broken that way.”
“I know that.”
Klin’s pale eyebrows rose.
“I mean… I mean I’ll be careful, my lord.”
Klin made a clicking sound, and his beautiful charger shook its head and turned. Geder’s squire looked up at him. If there was any amusement in the Dartinae’s glowing eyes, it was well hidden.
“Come on,” Geder said. “Let’s get in place.”
The hell of it was, what Klin said might be true. Perhaps he was sending Geder and the youngest Sir Kalliam into the easiest part of the coming battle. A charge, a few sword strokes to one side and another, and the paid forces call surrender before anyone got too badly hurt. It would be a mark of Klin’s ability if he could have all his knights alive, and increase his own glory by keeping the fiercest fights for himself. Anything to impress Lord Ternigan and stand out from the marshal’s other captains. Or perhaps Klin wanted Geder to die in the battle. Geder thought he might be ready to die if it meant not riding anymore.
Jorey Kalliam sat high on his saddle, speaking to his bannerman. His plate was simple steel, unadorned and elegant. Six other knights were with him, their squires all close and ready. Kalliam nodded solemnly to Geder and he returned the salute.
“Come close,” he called. “All of you. To me.”
The knights shifted their mounts in. Sir Makiyos of Ainsbaugh. Sozlu Veren and his twin brother Sesil. Darius Sokak, the Count of Hiren. Fallon Broot, Baron of Suderling Heights, and his son Daved. All in all, a pretty sad bunch. He could see from their own expressions that they’d drawn similar conclusions from his arrival.
“The valley narrows about half a league from here,” Kalliam said. “The Vanai are there, and they’re entrenched. The scouts are saying the banners here on the western edge belong to a mercenary company under a Captain Karol Dannian.”
“How many men’s he got?”
“Two hundred, but mostly sword-and-bows,” Kalliam said.
“Brilliant,” Fallon Broot said, stroking the mustache that drooped down past his weak chin. “That should leave enough for all of us to have our turn.”
Geder couldn’t tell if it was meant as a joke.
“Our work,” Kalliam said, “is to hold tight to the edge of the valley. The main thrust will be on the eastern end where Vanai’s forces are thickest. Lord Ternigan has all his own knights and half of ours. All we need is to be sure no one flanks them. Sir Klin is giving us three dozen bows and twice as many swords. I’ve sent the bows ahead. At the signal, they’ll start the attack and try to draw out their cavalry. When we hear the charge, we’ll go in with the swords following.”
“Why are they here?” Geder asked. “I mean, if I were them, I’d try to be behind a wall someplace. Make it a siege.”
“Can’t hire mercenaries for a siege,” one of the Sir Verens said, contempt for the question dripping from his words. “They take contract for a season, and Vanai can’t raise money to renew.”
“The city’s less than an hour’s ride from here,” Kalliam said, “and there’s no place more defensible until you reach it. If they hope to keep us from reaching Vanai, this is the first defense and the last.”
A distant horn sang. Two rising notes and one falling. Geder’s heart started beating a little faster. Kalliam smiled, but his eyes were cold.
“My lords,” Kalliam said. “I believe that’s the first call. If you have any last business, it’s too late for it now.”
The mist hadn’t vanished, but enough had burned off that the landscape was clear before them. To Geder’s unpracticed eye, it looked like any of the other small valleys they’d passed on their way through the low, rolling hills north of the Free Cities. The enemy was a dark, crawling line like ants from a hill. The other knights’ squires began the final preparation, strapping shield to arms, handing up the steel-tipped lances. Geder suffered the same. The Dartinae finished with him, then nodded and prepared his own arms for the battle; light leather and a long, wicked knife. And not half a league away, some other squire or low soldier was cleaning another knife just as wicked to push through Geder’s throat if the chance came. The horn sang again. Not the charge, but the warning of it.
“Good luck, my lord,” his squire said. Geder nodded awkwardly in his helm, turned his mount to follow the others, and started down toward the battle. His little gelding whickered nervously. The ants grew larger, and the enemy banners grew clear. He saw where Kalliam’s archers were set, hiding behind blinds of wood and leather. Kalliam raised his shield, and the knights stopped. Geder tried to twist back, to see the swordsmen behind them, but his armor forbade it. He squeezed his eyes closed. It was just like a tourney. Joust first, then a little melee. Even a rich mercenary company wasn’t likely to have many heavy cavalry. He’d be fine. He needed to piss.
The horns blew the martial doubled note of the charge. Kalliam and the other men shouted and spurred their mounts. Geder did the same, and the tired old gelding that had carried him for days and weeks became a beast made of wind. He felt himself shouting, but the world was a single roar. The archers’ blinds flickered by him and were gone, and then the enemy was there; not knights or heavy cavalry, but pikemen bringing their great spears to bear. Sir Makiyos barreled into the line, smashing it, and Geder angled his own attack to take advantage of the chaos.
A horse was screaming. Geder’s lance struck a pikeman, the blow wrenching his shoulder, and then he was past the line and into the melee. He dropped his lance, drew his sword, and started hewing away at whatever came close. To his right, one of the Veren twins was being pulled from his horse by half a dozen mercenary swordsmen. Geder yanked his mount toward the falling knight, but then his own swordsmen appeared, pouring through the broken line. He saw his squire loping along, head low and knife at the ready, but there were no men in plate to knock over and let his Dartinae finish. The mass of fighting men pushed to the south. Geder turned again, ready to find someone, but the mercenaries seemed reluctant to press the attack.
He didn’t see where the bolt came from. One moment, he was scanning the battle for a likely target, the next a small tree had taken root in his leg, the thick black wood punching through the plate and into the meat of his thigh. Geder dropped his sword and screamed, scrabbling at the bolt in agony. Something hit his shield hard enough to push him back. A drumbeat rolled from the south, low and deep as thunder. The gelding shifted unexpectedly, and Geder felt himself starting to slide out of his saddle. The hand that steadied him was Jorey Kalliam’s.
“Where did you come from?” Geder asked.
Kalliam didn’t answer. There was blood on the man’s face and spattered across his sheild, but he didn’t seem injured. His eyes were fixed on the battle, or something beyond it, and his expression was carved from ice. Trying to put aside his pain, Geder followed the boy’s gaze. There, dancing above the fray, new banners were flying. The five blue circles of Maccia.
“Never mind you,” Geder squeaked. “Where did they come from?”
“Can you ride?”
Geder looked down. His gelding’s pale side was red with blood, and the flow coming from the bolt in his leg looked wide as a river. A wave of dizziness made him clutch at his saddle. Men could die of leg wounds like that. He was sure he’d heard of men dying from leg wounds. Was he about to die, then?
“Palliako!”
He looked up. The world seemed to swim a little. Jorey Kalliam glanced from the line of battle now surging back toward them to Geder’s face.
“I’m hurt,” Geder said.
“You are a knight of the empire,” Kalliam said, and the power in his voice wasn’t anger. “Can you ride, sir?”
Geder felt some part of the other man’s strength come into him. The world steadied and Geder steadied with it.
“I can… I can ride.”
“Then go. Find Lord Ternigan. Tell him the Maccian banners are flying on the west end of the line. Tell him we need help.”
“I will,” he said and picked up his reins. Kalliam’s mount shifted toward the fight, snorting, but the young knight paused.
“Palliakio! Go directly to Lord Ternigan. Directly. ”
“Sir?”
“Not to Klin.”
Their eyes met for a moment, and an understanding passed between them. Kalliam didn’t trust their captain any more than he did. Relief and gratitude surged in Geder’s heart, and then surprise at the feelings.
“I understand,” he said. “I’ll bring help.”
Kalliam nodded, turned, and charged for the melee. Geder spurred his horse, riding east across the field. He struggled to unstrap his shield, gauntleted fingers and jouncing horse making the leather and buckles unwieldy. He managed to free his arm at last, and leaned forward, urging the beast faster. An hour ago, the valley had been grass and autumn wildflowers. Now it was churned mud and the roar of brawling men.
Geder squinted. The mist was gone now, but the wet banners were still darkened and clinging to their poles. He had to find the gold and crimson of House Ternigan. He had to do it now. All around him, men lay in the muck, dead or wounded. The screams of soldiers and horses cut through the air. But the banner of the king’s marshal was nowhere.
Geder shouted curses, shifting his gaze one way then the other. He felt cold. His bleeding leg was heavy, blood soaking his brigandine as quickly as the strength left his flesh. Every minute that passed made it less likely Kalliam and the others would survive, and his vision was starting to dance gold and darkness around the edges. He tried to stand higher in his stirrups, but his injured leg couldn’t support him. He drove his horse forward. There were the banners of Flor and Rivercourt, Masonhalm and Klin…
Klin. There, not fifty yards from where he sat, the banner of Sir Alan Klin flew wet and limp over a knot of fighting men. And there among them, the huge black warhorse with its red barding. Geder felt a tug. If it was a mistake, if Klin hadn’t meant to send them to the slaughter, then help was there. Right there. But if it had been his intention, and Geder went to him now, Kalliam and the others were dead. He rode on. His leg was numb. His mouth was dry. There, the banners of Estinford, Corenhall, Dannick.
Ternigan.
He spurred his horse and the gelding leapt forward, running toward the knot of battle that swirled around the banner. He cursed Ternigan for leading the charge instead of hanging back to direct the battle from the rear. He cursed Sir Alan Klin for sending him and Kalliam into the enemy’s trap. He cursed himself for having taken off his shield, and for having been wounded, and for not moving fast. An enemy swordsman lurched up out of the muck, and Geder rode him down. He smelled pine smoke. Something, somewhere was burning. The gelding was shaking under him, exhausted, trembling. He apologized silently to the beast and put spurs to it again.
He barreled into the fighting men like a stone thrown through a window. Swordsmen scattered around him, as many of them Antean as Vanai. Ten feet from the bannerman, Lord Ternigan stood high in his saddle, his sword shining in his hand, and soldiers five men deep keeping the enemy from reaching him.
“Lord Ternigan!” Geder shouted. “Ternigan!”
The roar of battle drowned him out. The marshal moved forward, in toward the line where the battle was thickest. A deep crimson rage rolled over Geder’s vision. Kalliam and the others were fighting, dying, for this man. The least the bastard could do was pay some attention. He pushed his shuddering mount forward, pressing through the marshal’s guard by raw determination. The battlefield narrowed to the one lord on his mount. The edges of Geder’s vision contracted, like he was riding through a tunnel that led to the world. When he came within three yards, he shouted again.
“Maccia, my Lord Ternigan. Maccia’s come on the west end, and they’re killing us!”
This time, the marshal heard. His head snapped toward Geder, the high, noble forehead furrowed. Geder waved his arms and pointed to the west. Don’t look at me. Look at Maccia.
“Who are you, sir?” Lord Ternigan said. His voice was as deep as a drum and echoed a bit. The world around it seemed quieter than it should have.
“Sir Geder Palliako. Jorey Kalliam’s sent me. West end’s not just mercenaries, my lord. Maccia’s there. Can’t hold them back. Kalliam… Kalliam sent me. You have to help him.”
Ternigan shouted something over his shoulder, and the horns blared again, close by and powerful as being slapped in the jaw. Geder opened his eyes again, surprised to find that he’d closed them. People were moving around him. Knights rode past him, streaming toward the west. At least he thought that was west. Lord Ternigan was beside him, holding him hard by one elbow.
“Can you fight, sir?” the Marshal of the Kingdom of Antea asked him from a long way away.
“I can,” Geder said, turning in his saddle. Slick with blood, his foot slipped free of the stirrup. Churned mud rose up, but the world went black before it reached him.
Abraham, Daniel
The Dragon’s Path
Marcus
For the midday meal, the caravan stopped at a clearing with a wide, slow brook. The thin boy, Mikel his name was, sat on the fallen log at Yardem’s side. Like the Tralgu, he wore his leathers open at the throat. They both leaned forward over their plates of beans and sausage. The boy’s shoulders were set as if bound by muscle they didn’t possess and his movements had a slow, deliberate power that his frame didn’t justify. Yardem tilted his head down a degree to look at Mikel. With the same gravity, the boy tilted his head up.
“Captain,” Yardem said, his ears pressed back. “Make him stop.”
Marcus, cross-legged on the ground, fought back a smile. “Stop what?”
“He’s been doing this for days, sir.”
“Acting like a soldier, you mean?”
“Acting like me, ” Yardem said.
Mikel made a low noise in his throat. Marcus had to cough to cover his laugh.
“We hired these people to act as guards,” Marcus said. “They’re acting as guards. Only natural they’d look to us for the details.”
Yardem grunted and turned to face the boy. When the boy met his gaze, the Tralgu deliberately flicked an ear.
The forest around them now was oak and ash, the trees taller than ten men. A scrub fire had come through within the last few years, scorching the bark and burning down the underbrush without ever reaching the wide canopy above. Marcus could imagine smoke rising up through green summer leaves. Now the roadside litter was damp, the fallen leaves black with mold and on their way to becoming soil for the next year’s weeds. Only the leaves on the road itself were dry. At the eastern end of the clearing, a wide-eyed stone Southling king in battle array and a six-pointed crown was half entombed in an oak. The old bark had swallowed half of the solemn face, roots tilted the wide stone pediment a degree. Vines draped the stone shoulders. Marcus didn’t know what the marker had been meant to commemorate.
For almost a week, the caravan had been making good progress. The road was well traveled, local farmers keeping it for the most part clean, but there had still been whole leagues where their way was covered in newly fallen leaves. The rustling of horses’ hooves and the crackle of the cart wheels had been loud enough to drown out conversation. The ’van master wasn’t bad for a religious. For the most part, Marcus could ignore the scriptures read over the evening meals. If the Timzinae happened to pick something particularly hard to listen to-sermons on family or children or the assurances that God was just or anything that touched too closely on what had happened to his wife and daughter-Marcus ate quickly and took a long private walk out ahead on the road. He called it scouting, and the ’van master didn’t take offense. Other travelers had joined with the ’van and parted company again without more than a look from Yardem or himself to keep the peace. Except that they weren’t yet a quarter of the way to the pass that marked the edge of Birancour, the job was going better than expected.
Marcus chewed his last bite of sausage slowly. The dozen carts filled half the clearing, horses and mules with feedbags over their heads or else being led to and from the brook to drink. The carters knew their business for the most part. The old man driving the tin ore was a little deaf and the boy with the high cart of wool cloth was either new to the trade or an idiot or both, but they were the worst. And his acting troupe had worked out magnificently. If he looked at the trees, not considering the people at all, he could still pick out the guards in the sides of his vision, just by their swagger.
By the side of the road, the long-haired woman, Cary, stood with her arms crossed and a huge horn-and-sinew bow slung across her back. Likely she couldn’t have drawn the damn thing, but she wore it like the companion of years. Sandr, the young lead, walked among the carts, head high and brow furrowed. He’d been telling stories to the carters about how he’d broken a foot jousting in an Antean tourney, and had become so familiar with the tale he’d adopted a barely noticable limp to go with it. And then there, sitting with the ’van master’s fat wife, was his cunning man, Master Kit, without whom Yardem would even now be failing to keep Vanai from falling. Without whom Marcus would have been jailed or killed.
The ’van master’s whistle brought Marcus back to himself, and he squinted up into the thin patch of high, white cloud that showed through the canopy above them. Time was harder to judge in the shadows of a forest, but he guessed the meal had run long. Well, his contract was to get them all into Carse safely. On schedule wasn’t his problem. Marcus cleaned his plate with a crust of bread and pulled himself up to standing.
“Rear or fore?” Yardem asked.
“I’ll take fore,” Marcus said.
The Tralgu nodded and lumbered toward the iron merchant’s wagon that brought up the rear of the ’van. It would be the last to leave. Marcus checked his blade and his armor with the same care he did before going into battle-an old habit-and went to the ’van master’s tall, broad feed wagon. He climbed up beside the master’s wife and settled in for the afternoon’s trek. The Timzinae woman nodded to him and blinked her clear inner eyelids.
“That was a fine meal, ma’am,” Marcus said.
“You’re kind to say so, Captain.”
Their conversation complete, she shouted at her horses, flicking her whip lightly at shoulder and haunch to direct them. The wagon lurched forward up onto the road, and then to the west. As they passed into the deep shadows again, Marcus wondered whether Vanai had fallen yet, and if not, how many more days the free city had left. Not many. Another problem not his own.
The rotation was a simple one. Rear and fore were Yardem or Marcus. Master Kit drove his own cart in the center of the ’van with the gaudy colors of the theater draped in cloth. The others rode three on either side of the carts, keeping their eyes on the trees. If anyone saw something suspicious, they’d call out, and Yardem or Marcus would go and look. In a week, the only call they’d had was when Smit, the jack-of-all-roles, had spooked himself with stories about bands of feral Dartinae assassins. Marcus let his eyes narrow, his back rest against the hard wood of the driver’s rig. The world smelled of rotting leaves and coming weather, but he couldn’t decide yet if it would be rain or snow.
The road made a tight turn at the base of a densely wooded hill. A tree had fallen across the road, its base still white where the axe had cut it. Marcus felt his body tense almost before he knew why.
“Call the stop,” he said.
Even before the Timzinae woman could ask why, Smit, Sandr, and Opal all shouted. Marcus turned, scrambling to the top of the wagon. There shouldn’t have been bandits. They didn’t have anything worth taking. The ’van master’s white mare was racing up the side of the carts toward the front. He saw four figures in leather and light chain step out from the trees, bows at the ready. They had hoods covering them, but from the width of their build, Marcus guessed Jasuru or Kurtadam. Four in plain sight could mean the bandits were bluffing. Or that there were a dozen more still in the trees.
At least they hadn’t announced themselves with an arrow.
“Hai!” a raspy voice called from the road ahead. “Who speaks for you?”
Four men on horses had appeared in front of the fallen oak. Three were either poorly groomed Cinnae or badly underfed Firstbloods riding nags, but the one in front rode a grey stallion with good lines and real strength in his legs. He also had a steel breastplate and chainmail. His bow was horn, his sword was curved in the southern style, and his face had the broad, thick-boned jaw and bronze scales of a Jasuru.
The Timzinae caravan master pulled his mare up in front of the supply wagon’s team.
“I speak for this ’van,” he shouted. “What is the meaning of this?”
Marcus shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. Eight men they could see. Half of those mounted. He had eight men, and six of them on horse. It was a damn small advantage, and if it came to blows, they wouldn’t last five long breaths together. He hoped the Timzinae wasn’t going to press the bandits too hard.
“I am Lord Knightly Tierentois,” the bandit captain said loud enough to carry. “You are traveling in my road, and I have come to collect my due tribute.”
Marcus slipped back down to the driver’s rig, the impulse to roll his eyes warring with the tightness in his belly. The horseman might be a fake and a blowhard, but he had blades and bows.
“These are dragon’s roads,” the ’van master shouted. “And you’re a half-wit, jumped-up thief in stolen armor. Birancour doesn’t have any Jasuru knights.”
Well, that wasn’t as politic as Marcus had hoped. The bandit captain’s laughter was hearty and false. Marcus put his hand on the pommel of his sword and tried to think of a way out of this that left the fewest people dead. If the actors charged the bowmen at the sides of the ’van, they might spook them into running. Leaving only four men on horse for him. Yardem appeared at his side, silent as a shadow. The Tralgu’s bow was in his hand. So two horesmen each. Unless there were more in the trees.
“The day you mutiny and take the company?” Marcus murmured.
“Not today, sir.”
The caravan master was shouting now, and the false knight’s face was taking the green-bronze cast that spoke of rage among the Jasuru. Marcus slipped off the wagon and walked forward. The men on horse didn’t seem to notice him until he was almost even with the ’van master’s mare.
“How much do you want?” Marcus said.
Timzinae and Jasuru both shifted to stare down at him with equal anger.
“Pardon my interrupting your fine and spirited debate, but how much do you want?”
“You should show me some respect, boy,” the Jasuru said.
“How much do you want, my lord, ” Marcus said. “Because if you’ll look at the ’van here, we don’t have much. Unless his lordship and his lordship’s noble compatriots are willing to accept tribute in tin ore and iron, there may not be a great deal we can offer.”
“Don’t speak for me,” the Timzinae hissed.
“Don’t get us killed,” Marcus said, equally softly.
“And who are you, Firstblood?” the Jasuru said.
“Marcus Wester. I’m guard captain of this ’van.”
The laughter this time was less forced, and the men on the other horses joined in. The Jasuru shook his broad head and grinned. His tongue was black, and his teeth needle sharp.
“You’re Marcus Wester?”
“I am.”
“Ah. And I suppose that one back there is Lord Harton returned from the dead. Tell you what, I’ll be Drakis Stormcrow.”
“No less likely than Lord Knightly Whatever-it-was,” the ’van master said.
Marcus ignored him. “You’ve heard of me, then.”
“I was at Wodford, and I am about done being insulted,” the Jasuru said. “All your coin. All your food. Half your women. The rest of you can crawl back to Vanai.”
“Eat shit,” the ’van master said.
The Jasuru reached for his sword, and a new voice boomed out behind them.
“We. Shall. Pass.”
Master Kit stood on the top of the feed wagon. The black and purple robes of Orcus the Demon King draped from him like shadows made solid, and he held a staff with a skull on its end. When the actor spoke again, his voice carried to them all as if it came from the dim air.
“My protection is on these men. You cannot harm them.”
“What the sweet hell is this?” the Jasuru said, but his voice had taken a worried tone.
“You cannot harm us,” Master Kit said. “Your arrows will stray from us. Your swords will not break our skins. You have no power here.”
Marcus turned back to the Jasuru. Confusion and anxiety twisted the bandit’s face.
“This is shit,” one of the three behind him said, but his voice lacked conviction.
“Who is that?” the Jasuru said.
“My cunning man,” Marcus said.
“ Hear me, ” Master Kit shouted, and the forest itself seemed to go quiet. “The trees are our allies and the shadow of oak protects us. You cannot harm us, boy. And we shall pass.”
A chill ran up Marcus’s spine. He could see that Orcus the Demon King was having much the same effect on the bandits. He felt a small, tentative hope. The Jasuru pulled his bow from its sling and nocked a vicious-looking arrow.
“Say that again, you bastard!” the bandit captain shouted.
Even in the dimness, Marcus saw Master Kit smile. The actor raised his arms, the dark folds of the costume seeming to twist on their own accord, just as they’d done during the play in Vanai. It was something to do with uneven stitching, but with Master Kit’s sepulchral voice and defiant posture, the effect was unsettling. Master Kit spoke again, slow and clear and utterly confident.
“You cannot harm me. Your arrow will miss its mark.”
The Jasuru scowled and drew back the string. The horn bow creaked.
Well, Marcus thought, it was worth the try. And then, a second later: God damn. He is going to miss.
The arrow sped through the gloom. Master Kit didn’t flinch as the shaft flew past his ear. The Jasuru licked his lips with a wide, black tongue. His gaze shifted from Marcus to Master Kit and back. There was real fear in his eyes now.
“And for what it carries, I really am Marcus Wester.”
The silence lasted four long breaths together, before the Jasuru turned his horse to the side and raised his arm. “There’s nothing here, boys,” the bandit shouted. “These little turds aren’t worth the effort.”
The horsemen sprang away into the forest. Marcus stood in the road, listening to their hoofbeats fade and realizing that he wasn’t going to die today after all. He clasped his hands behind him to keep them from trembling and looked up at the ’van master. The Timzinae was shaking too. At least Marcus wasn’t the only one. He stepped to the side of the road, leaning to see that the bowmen at the treeline had also vanished.
Yardem walked to him. “That was odd,” the Tralgu said.
“Was,” Marcus said. “Don’t suppose we have a winch? We’re going to have to move that tree.”
That night, the ’van master’s wife cooked meat. Not sausage, not salt pork, but a fresh-killed lamb the ’van master bought from a farm at the forest’s edge. The meat was dark and rich, seasoned with raisins and a sharp-tasting yellow sauce. The carters and drivers and most of Marcus’s guard sat around a roaring bonfire at the side of the road. All except the wool-hauler, Tag, who never seemed to eat with anybody. And sitting at a separate fire away from all the others, Marcus ate with Master Kit.
“It’s how I’ve made my living since… well, not since before you were born, I suppose,” the actor said. “I stand before people, usually on a wagon, and I convince them of things. I tell them that I am a fallen king or a shipwrecked sailor on an unknown shore. I presume they know it isn’t truth, but I see my work as making them believe even when they know better.”
“What you did back there, then?” Marcus said. “Talking the bastard with the bow out of his confidence? It wasn’t magic?”
“I think talking a man into believing in his own failure is close enough to magic. Don’t you?”
“I don’t really, no.”
“Well, then perhaps we disagree on the point. More wine?”
Marcus took the proffered skin and squirted the bright-tasting wine into his mouth. In the light of the two fires-the small one at their knees, the large one fifteen yards away-shadows clung to the old actor’s cheeks and in the hollows of his eyes.
“Captain. If it’s any comfort to you, I’ll swear this. I can be very convincing, and I can tell when someone is trying to convince me. That is all the magic I possess.”
“Cut thumbs on it?” Marcus said, and Master Kit laughed.
“I’d rather not. If I get blood on the costumes, it’s hard to get out. But what about you? What exactly did you intend, facing the man down like that?”
Marcus shrugged.
“I didn’t intend anything. Not in particular,” he said. “Only I thought the ’van master was going about it badly.”
“Would you have fought?” Master Kit asked. “If it had come to swords and arrows?”
“Of course,” Marcus said. “Probably not for very long, given the odds, but I’d have fought. Yardem too, and I hope your people along with us. It’s what they pay us for.”
“Even though you knew we couldn’t win?”
“Yes.”
Master Kit nodded. Marcus thought a smile was lurking at the corners of the actor’s lips, but in the flickering light he couldn’t be sure. It might have been something else.
“I want to start drilling your people,” Marcus said. “An hour before we ride in the morning, and an hour after we stop. We can’t do much, but they ought to know more about a sword than which end to hold it by.”
“I think that’s wise,” Master Kit said.
Marcus looked up at the sky. The stars glowed like snowfall, and the moon, newly risen, sent long, pale shadows across black ground. The forest was behind them, but the air still smelled like weather. Rain, Marcus decided. Most likely it would be rain. Master Kit was chewing his lamb, his eyes on the little fire and his expression distant.
“Don’t worry. Today was the worst of it,” Marcus said. “We’ve got our excitement behind us.”
Master Kit didn’t look at him, making his polite smile to the flames instead. For a moment, Marcus thought the old man wasn’t going to speak. When he did, his voice was low and abstracted.
“Probably,” Master Kit said.