Alex Bledsoe - Dark Jenny

Nose-tip looked up at me. “Finish it, then,” he gasped.

I pulled the sword from his stomach. Blood and organs surged forth, and he clutched them with both hands as he curled into a ball. “Finish it yourself,” I said. Kern would be proud that I resisted the urge to kick him in the head.

I tossed Kay’s sword into the wagon and helped the wounded knight sit up. He opened his eyes and said, “Did you get the others?”

“Yeah, I got ’em.”

He grinned, which turned into a scowl of pain. “You’d make a fine Knight of the Double Tarn. Sorry I could only handle one.”

“You did your part.” Then I realized Polly was gone. I looked around, but saw no sign of her on the road, in the fields, or in the forests. I hadn’t counted the horses, so I couldn’t tell if one was missing.

That annoyed me. I had plans for her. I made a quick check of the coffin, which hadn’t been tampered with. Then I propped Bob back on his side of the seat and we resumed our trip to Nodlon, leaving Nose-tip still writhing on the road. Three crows hopped nearby in anticipation.

At noon I again stopped the wagon at the top of a hill. Kay had fallen asleep, and the sudden halt didn’t wake him. I checked his pulse; it was weak but steady.

The view below and ahead would’ve made a great tapestry. In the background stood Nodlon Castle, perched starkly on its cliff against the sea and sky. Sun sparkled along the top of the walls, where men in armor patrolled the parapets. Flags fluttered in the breeze, and white gulls flew in place against the wind.

The land just outside the walls was empty. I’d seen it crowded with vendors and merchants just days before, but they were long gone now, leaving only bare spots in the grass where they’d previously camped.

Beyond this open space, closer to us, men and horses in armor formed a defensive crescent around the castle. They’d established a line with spears, shields, and barricades, but their strength wasn’t deep. If the line broke, there were no reinforcements to fill it.

Next came another crescent of open land, except for two things. One was a fifteen-foot pole protruding from a pile of wood. It was the stake where the queen would be burned if found guilty of her crimes. The other was a large tent set up just beside the road.

The tent’s walls rippled in the wind, and several Knights of the Double Tarn stood guard outside it. It flew a large white flag of truce. The rival commanders would meet there to negotiate prior to engaging in battle; each would give the other the chance to surrender. That was where I needed to be.

Between me and that destination was the vast camp of Medraft’s enormous mercenary army.

Unlike the orderly billets of government-sponsored troops, the mercenaries’ tents were a hodgepodge of sizes, styles, and personalizations. Men sat around campfires polishing armor, sharpening weapons, and drinking to excess. Pages and water boys ran among them, and screams occasionally punctuated the steady clatter. I estimated five thousand men; the knights in Nodlon, even counting the trainees, might manage a sixth of that. Currently Medraft’s men hadn’t even established a real perimeter to face their opponents; they were content to rest after their march and let their sheer presence do the work.

My horses tossed their heads nervously. I wanted to do the same, but I’d look silly.

The road went down the hill through the mercenaries, past the white tent, and into the castle. In places the stones were shattered so badly that it became merely a muddy path littered with rock shards. Like the landscape it passed through, the mercenaries had deliberately destroyed the road to prevent its use.

Kay stirred beside me. He yawned, winced at the pain it sent through his neck, and looked around in confusion. It only took a moment for him to orient himself, though. “We made it,” he said. “Did you have any more trouble?”

“No. But this could make up for it.”

He grimly surveyed the scene. “It’s like the last twenty years never happened,” he said at last. The horror, regret, and dismay in his voice was heartbreaking. “We’re back to the way we were.”

“It’s not too late. If we can get down there before the sword-clanging starts, we can stop this.”

“What is going on? Do you know who killed Sam Patrice?”

“Yes,” I said with certainty. “I’ll tell you when we’re all in the same place at the same time.”

“All who?”

“Everyone involved.”

He sat back and closed his eyes. “Sounds like one of those damn mummer shows.” In a faux upper-crust twitter he said, “‘I suppose you wonder why I’ve asked you all here.’ I hate those things.”

“You’ll like this one,” I assured him.

First, though, I had to get through the army. No one had paid any attention to us so far; they assumed that if we were here, we were supposed to be. Certainly I looked only marginally more presentable than most of the mercenaries, and the bloody bandage around Kay’s neck helped him blend in as well. But the drive to the white-flagged parley tent was a long one, and the chances we’d make it without being challenged were pretty slim. It seemed smarter to make the first move myself.

I started the wagon down the road slowly, watching the soldiers who passed nearby until I saw the kind of man I wanted. I called out, “Hey! Pissant!”

A young man with a vague suggestion of a beard on his chin turned, saw us, and pointed questioningly at himself. “Yes, you!” I snarled. “Get your ass over here when I call you.”

He threaded through the crowd until he reached us. He was bare-chested, his hair and body wet from recent washing. This must be his first campaign if he still worried about hygiene. He also wore no weapon, a sure sign of a novice. When I was a mercenary, I never went anywhere unarmed. I said, “Get up here and drive this thing.” I stepped over the back of the seat into the wagon bed.

He looked at me blankly. “Do I know you?”

I used the voice that, in my day, made new recruits wet their pants. I caught Kay’s admiring glance out of the corner of my eye. “Your ass will get to know my boot really well if you keep giving me lip. Now get up here and drive!”

The bare-chested young man quickly climbed up and took the reins.

“What’s your name?” I demanded.

“Ollie. I’m with-”

“I didn’t ask for your goddamned life story, did I? Or would you rather I keep calling you “pissant,” because that’s fine with me.” He stared at me, and I added, “Are you a moron? Let’s go! This coffin’s supposed to be at the parley tent three hours ago!”

He yelled at the horses, and they started forward so abruptly I nearly tumbled out of the wagon. Kay covered his mouth so Ollie wouldn’t see him laugh.

We got halfway through the camp before someone finally stopped us. A tall, wide-shouldered man with a missing eye and a permanent scowl stepped right in our path with no apparent doubt the horses would stop for him. They did.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, and pointed at the coffin.

“It’s a coffin, what do you think?” Ollie said before I could answer. I realized with a start that he was imitating my own tough-guy voice. Now I struggled not to laugh.

The tall man did not. He narrowed his good eye and said, “Do you know who I am?”

Ollie’s braggadocio broke like a paper-thin dam. “Yes, Captain Ivy, I’m sorry, sir.”

Ivy chewed his lip thoughtfully, looked at Kay and me and the coffin, then said, “Somebody better tell me the story about this or we’ll add three more corpses to the fire.”

“Sure,” I said. “General Medraft sent for this coffin personally. It’s something he wants to show King Marcus.”