Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

Something passed across the divide between life and death-something mighty.

Is he dead? Thorn whispered into the darkness. Suddenly bold, he cast himself across the abyss.

Gavin was kneeling by his brother. He had not seen his brother cry-not openly-since the other man had been a boy, and it made him feel sick with old feelings of rage and weakness and bullying strength.

But Gabriel’s tears were quick. Almost like a mummer or a vagabond actor at a fair, he raised his head, eyes still full of tears that glittered in the firelight, but his voice was suddenly steady.

“Everyone run,” he said. “Now.”

“Incoming!” shouted Adrian Goldsmith. The squire didn’t sound terrified-he sounded relieved. “It’s Ser Michael!”

Ser Gavin froze.

Something began to form at the edge of the firelight.

“Run,” Gabriel said.

He meant it. Perhaps he leaked ops into his command. But every man and woman at the fire broke and ran into the dark.

Gabriel tried to rise. But he had nothing left-except the trickle of ops that had, against all odds, preserved him.

He sighed. He heard horses on the road, heard voices.

He got to one elbow.

The heavy black shadow became material.

Thorn emerged from the aethereal with a hiss of lost air and bite of incredible cold. He was no longer like a tree. He was now more like a shadow or a pillar of smoke, lit from behind by a red fire. Two eyes glowed high above the captain.

A horse bellowed its fear.

“Ahh!” Thorn intoned. The syllable was full of surprise and satisfaction.

Gabriel lay and swallowed bile.

Then Mag was there. She was a woman of middle height, wearing the cowled hood of a woman pilgrim. She didn’t even have a staff.

In the aethereal , she wielded a pair of scissors made of light, and she reached to cut Thorn’s links to his home and his base of power. Her strike was faster than the flicker of summer lightning, and she did not guard herself, so decisive was she.

Gabriel had time to register the shriek of Thorn’s disappointed rage, and the un-human magister was- gone.

Just for a moment, Mag seemed to tower over the fire like an avenging angel, and then she was just an aging woman in a cowled hood.

She leaned over the captain, who managed a very shaky grin. “I’m not having a good day,” he said.

Mag kissed his cheek. “Stay with us, my dear.”

“That was-” Gabriel struggled for words.

Mag laughed. “I’ve been wondering when he might try a straight-up kill,” she said. “I’ve been working on that for months.” She was brimful of power-and pride. Until she saw Arnaud.

She bent over him, but he was dead.

Gabriel reached up and put a hand on her skirts. “Did you-hit him?”

“No. He bolted at my first twitch.” She smiled. “I knew he had to.” Her smile grew shakier. “That is, I hoped he had to.”

She sat suddenly. And then she put a hand on the dead priest’s hands, and cried.

Albinkirk

The company that rode into Albinkirk was sober, watchful, and grief-stricken. The company flags were furled, and the lead wagon held corpses-any observer could see as much.

Ser John Crayford watched them come through the gate and rode immediately to the head of the column, instead of reviewing and saluting the entire company.

The young sprig of last year was older. Much older. He wore a small pointed beard and his eyes were tired. His face was an expressionless mask of fatigue and unexpressed grief.

“How can I help?” Ser John asked.

Ser Gabriel took his offered hand. “Today, barracks. Tomorrow…” His eyes flickered aside. “Tomorrow, a priest you like and a church. We have a dozen dead.” His eyes held grief-actual grief.

Welcome to growing up, laddie, Ser John thought. But he had kindness in him, too, and in fifty heartbeats his squire was riding for the bishop while his valet led the outriders to the barracks. The castle was still half-empty. With the company at a little over a third of its strength, he could put every man and woman in a bed, or at least on a straw pallet.

Ser John got the tale of the ambush from Kit Foliak, who he knew from his younger days, as the tired squires and pages began to sort the packs and the leather bags and the wagons and the horses in the citadel’s courtyard, paved with uneven stones five centuries old.

When he’d seen to the company’s basic comforts, he went with Ser Ricar Fitzalan-a thinner and fitter version of the King’s captain-into his hall and sent a boy for the Red Knight. The man came with his famous brother, and sat in a tall chair piled with cushions while his valet raised one of his legs, elevated it, and put it on a stool. The slip of a girl was quick, efficient, and apparently unconcerned by her master’s vague nastiness.

“Stop that-fuck, you’re hurting me,” the captain spat. “Damn it, girl. Stop fussing. No, I do not want water. Get your hands off me.”

Nell ignored him resolutely, following Mag’s orders.

Ser Gabriel was out of his harness, and his fine velvet arming coat was filthy.

The man seemed to come to himself. He sighed and looked at Ser John.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m not myself.”

Ser Gavin shrugged and accepted a cup of wine. “You seem exactly like yourself to me,” he said. “I’m not sure we’ve been introduced. I’m Ser Gavin Muriens. This is my brother, Ser Gabriel.”

Ser John rose and bowed. “Ser John Crayford. I know your brother, from the siege and all that followed.” He looked at the surly captain. “And for lifting my two best men-at-arms when he went past last time.”

Ser Ricar laughed aloud. “Well, I don’t know either of you, but I’m Ser Ricar Fitzalan. The old king’s bastard. And captain of the bodyguard.”

Ser Gavin bowed. “I saw you after Lissen Carak. Indeed, we were within a few beds in the dispensary of the sisters.”

Ser Ricar bowed from his seat. “Of course. My apologies.”

“Hah! One linen-wrapped body looks much like the rest,” Gavin said. “But Sister Amicia pointed you out.”

Ser John leaned forward. “Kit Foliak says you were ambushed-beat the ambush-and that a certain former king’s sorcerer tried to clinch the bargain.”

Gabriel played with his untrimmed beard. “Master Foliak is very free with his information. But yes.”

Ser John shook his head. “I mean no harm and, by God, sirs, I believe we are of the same metal. If there need be factions, surely we are all King’s men? And all of us foes of Plangere and his ilk.”

Gabriel’s smile was not friendly. But he sighed-a long exhalation. He looked at his brother, who twitched an eyebrow.

“Ser John, I’m a churl today. I’m not at my best, and I beg your pardon.” He bowed slightly in his chair.

Ser John reflected the bow exactly.

Ser Gabriel looked out the window at the spring rain. They’d lost a day crossing the last stream before Albinkirk, the north branch of the West Kanatha. It was flooded to a roaring torrent by the spring melt. It had taken too long for tired men to get the wagons across.

The captain’s tongue had been too active and too biting.

He regretted it. He stared out the window and no one spoke. Finally he said, “I lost too many men. And a-a friend.”

Ser John thought ahhh.

Less intuitive, or simply blunter, Ser Ricar held out his cup for more wine and asked, “What hit you?”

Ser Gavin’s voice was not much less strained than his brother’s. “Four wyverns,” he said. “Twenty daemons and a shaman. Something we’ve never seen before.” Gavin gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “We brought two corpses to show you. We call them imps.” He looked away. “We lost three men to them.”