Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

Mugwump pumped his wings and twisted again sharply in pursuit. He looped up and over as he chased after a particularly good flier. Prince Vlad vomited. He coughed and retched, doubling over both frozen and miserable, holding on for dear life and wishing he might fall to his death and end the torture. He had no idea where he was, why Mugwump had stopped responding to commands, what the demons were, or why Mugwump seemed so intent on, and skilled at, killing them.

Then one landed on Vlad’s back, cloaking him in its wings. It chittered as it lunged for his neck, its fetid breath hot against exposed flesh. Its clawed hands grabbed his shoulders tightly, and toe talons found purchase on his thighs.

Vlad snapped his head back, driving his skull into the creature’s face. Bones broke, and a part of the Prince’s brain catalogued that fact. It made sense that the creature’s bones would be light, even hollow, like a bird’s. To confirm that, he grabbed its ankles and squeezed. More bones popped and the creature thrashed. He reached up and back, grabbing it by the wings, then pulled it forward and smashed its spine against the saddle horn.

For a heartbeat he contemplated keeping it as a specimen, but contemptuously tossed it aside. As it fell, Mugwump looked back and hooted triumphantly.

Then he rolled again and dropped from the sky, leaving Prince Vlad’s stomach somewhere above the clouds. The dragon’s sharp descent pierced the black fog, but it had already begun to dissipate. Wings flared and Mugwump landed softly, snorting and hissing more deadly mist.

A man came running over, remaining well clear of Mugwump’s wings and tail. “Highness, what are you doing here?”

It took Prince Vlad a moment to recognize him beneath the blood. “I could ask you the same, Owen. Is this Postsylvania?”

“So the locals say.”

Kamiskwa came trotting over, a young girl clutched in one arm, his bloody warclub in his other hand. “Becca was never called to the Temple. She hid. As the demons scattered, one entered the house she was in. She screamed. I thought Rufus might have slunk off in that direction, so I went looking and found her instead.”

Mugwump raised his muzzle and sniffed. He roared a challenge.

The Altashee smiled. “Then I leave her to you, Mugwump, and I shall continue seeking signs of our enemy.”

Prince Vlad invoked the spell and spun the left-hand wheel. The dragon responded by turning toward a large barnlike building in front of which Nathaniel and Makepeace crouched over a man. “Is that Colonel Rathfield?”

Owen nodded. “Rufus Branch used magick on him, the like of which I’ve never seen before. Not even du Malphias had this sort of power. Please tell me Mugwump ate him.”

“I don’t believe so, but I cannot be sure.” The Prince slid from the saddle and went to his knees. “I’ve been riding for hours, maybe five or so.”

Owen helped him up and threw an arm around his waist. “We’re glad you got here. We were done until you sent them flying.”

“Not me, it was Mugwump.” The Prince became a bit steadier as they walked to where Rathfield lay. “Magick, you say?”

“Wickedly powerful magick.” Owen held his hand out to Becca and she reluctantly took it, hanging back away from Rathfield.

Rathfield had been stretched out and his limbs straightened. He had a few minor cuts-far fewer than any of the others, all of whom looked thoroughly gnawed-and signs of a broken leg. Of most concern, however, was the clear indication of a skull fracture. The flesh over his left eye had already begun to swell and turn purple.

Nathaniel swiped his forearm over his forehead, smearing blood. “He’s breathing, but reedy. Tain’t going to be long for this world.”

A distant voice called out. “I can help him.”

Makepeace got up and lumbered toward the center of the green. “Done forgot the Steward.”

The Prince raised an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Ezekiel Fire. He’s the Steward of Happy Valley, which is the capital of Postsylvania. He founded the True Oriental Church of the Lord.” Owen tore a strip off his loincloth and stuffed it against a bite-mark on his forearm. “Did the Count and Hodge make it back to you yet?”

“No.”

Nathaniel nodded. “Sixteenth might have been a bit quick to expect, but inside two weeks they’ll reach Temperance Bay.”

Before the Prince could even begin to catalogue the questions he wanted to ask, Makepeace returned with a small, older man who was rubbing his wrists. Without a word Fire sank to his knees beside Ian Rathfield and held his hands out flat over the man’s cracked skull. A faint reddish glow surrounded them, then he looked up. “This is not good. I can help, but I cannot heal him, not fully.”

“Well, Steward, I reckon you want to be telling us what you kin do, then we’ll figger the rest.”

“His leg’s broken, but you can set that.”

The Prince pointed to the man’s head. “Depressed skull fracture.”

The Steward nodded. “It is, but it isn’t just that. There’s still magick there. It’s lost lots of power, but is still trying to drive bone into his brain. God willing, I can break that.”

Makepeace knelt beside the Steward at the Colonel’s head. “I’ll be proud to be praying with you.”

Fire nodded, then gently lay his hands on Rathfield’s skull. He touched thumb to thumb and index finger to index finger, letting the wound appear plainly in that triangle. He took a deep breath, then raised his face toward the Heavens.

“Most Holy and Almighty God, I kneel here before You a most foolish and unworthy servant. Through my sinfulness and pride, I allowed a man to learn things I do not think You meant him to know. He laid this man low. I saw it as plain as I see the results now. But this man, Ian Rathfield, he is a good and righteous man. He came to the aid of his fellow men here, knowing the danger he was in. You made him magnificent, Lord, a Lion of the Faith, facing a man possessed of dozens of demons, a man commanding legions of demons. All because I believed I knew what You wanted. So I beg of you, dear Lord, to lift the magick Your enemy used. I beg You to bring him back from the brink of death. If it is Your will, I will accept from him the burden of his injuries, that he may continue to know life in You, and the joy of communion with You. Thy will be done.”

No one said a thing and for a handful of heartbeats, nothing happened. Then the red glow returned to Fire’s hands. It intensified, hiding his flesh, yet leaving Rathfield’s forehead still visible. And there bones shifted. Though the swelling did not subside, bone rose and snapped crisply back into place. A bit of the glow outlined an odd sigil in Rathfield’s flesh, as if a tattoo somehow fading into invisibility.

Fire slumped back on his heels. Makepeace caught him and dragged him away, laying him out on the ground. “He’s breathing regular, just exhausted.”

Nathaniel moved down to Rathfield’s ankle. “Makepeace, grab his knee. Girl, can you go into the workshop and get me two pieces of wood about as long as you are tall?”

Becca stared at him, still shivering.

Owen squeezed her hand. “I’ll go with you. It will help.”

Once the girl had vanished into the workshop, Nathaniel pulled on the ankle and Kamiskwa set the broken leg. Rathfield remained unconscious throughout. His breathing became more regular and quiet.

Prince Vlad slowly shook his head. “Where do I begin?”

“Telling your story, or hearing ours?” Nathaniel smiled. “Not sure there’s enough time for either.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

As Owen returned with the splints for the leg, Nathaniel steered the Prince toward the village green. “Bad doings here, very bad. Owen can give you his journal. That will tell you most of it. Plain facts is this: two villages done been destroyed, maybe a third. Yonder fire’s all’s left of the folks of Happy Valley. It’s a blessing we’re up wind of it. Ezekiel Fire and his people found some magick which makes that healing he done look like lighting a candle. I ain’t sure Fire’s in his right mind. And the things we done found up to the mountains, well, if they are just a sliver of what they might be, I ain’t sure there’s power on this here earth what can even slow them down.”