Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

The priest’s coffin had the banner of the Order of Saint Thomas over it, and no other marking but the dead priest’s crucifix, helm, and gauntlets.

Like every man present, the bishop was soaked to the skin, and cold.

He raised his arms.

“What words can I say that will equal the deeds of these people?” he asked. “How can I express a mother’s grief? Or a knight’s impotence in the face of death?”

The only sound was the rain. Gabriel flinched.

“In the beginning was the word ,” the bishop said. “Word” echoed. “Only the true word, the Logos , could speak for these. As the Logos was, in the beginning, so he will wait until the end, alpha and omega. And, we can only hope, wait patiently for all of us to come to him.” He stood, arms wide, his soaking vestments hanging from him and his face raised to the sky.

Perhaps they expected a flash of lightning, or the acknowledgement of the heavens, but there was only an icy wind.

Six knights-Ser Gabriel, Ser Thomas, Ser Gavin, Ser Michael, Lord Wimarc and Ser Alison-lowered Father Arnaud into the muddy hole prepared for him. Toby had a pile of earth covered carefully with oil cloth, and he’d done the same for every dead archer and page and squire and child. One by one, the soaked knights lowered their dead into the embrace of the mud, and then put fresh earth atop them.

The goodwife stood and wept. When the last coffin passed her, she reached out to touch it, and then turned away.

Ser Gabriel stood with the bishop. “You are a man of power,” he said.

The bishop shrugged. “Today I am a man with no power to make a mother feel the love of God,” he said. “And no interest in pious mouthings.”

Ser Gabriel nodded. There was cold water running down his spine. His arming coat had soaked through.

“He was a great man.” Ser Gabriel surprised himself to say it.

“You loved him, then?” the bishop asked.

Ser Gabriel turned away. Then, very slowly, he shrugged. “He was a fine man-at-arms and my people loved him.”

“And you?” asked the bishop.

“Why must you ask?” Gabriel said. His shields were back up-a smile twisted his mouth. “I have some pious mouthings of my own to deliver, my lord bishop.”

He walked over to the company. They were as still as if on parade-a rank of knights and men-at-arms, and then a rank of squires, a rank of archers, and finally a rank of pages. Ready to receive a wyvern or a cavalry charge. Or bad news.

The captain stood in the rain. He raised his head and looked at them. “When we make mistakes, people die,” he said. “When we do our jobs well, other people die. Death is part of our trade-always there. And, like wages, it’s not fair. Why the baby? Why not someone old, like Cuddy?”

A few daring souls tittered.

The captain looked around. “I don’t know. I don’t know why Arnaud died, instead of me. But at another level, I know exactly why Arnaud died, and why Robin died and why we’re standing here in the rain. We’re here because we chose-we chose to fight. Some of you joined the company to fight for something you liked. Some of you fight for each other. Some for gold coins and a precious few fight because mayhap we’ll do some good, whatever good is.” He looked around. “The baby didn’t choose to fight, though. Nor the mother.”

He shrugged. “My point is, we know who killed them. We’re in the middle of a fight. The bishop reminds you of God’s mercy. I will only say this: I will not forget why they died, and when the moment comes…” He took a deep breath, and the men and women in the front row could see the red clash of his eyes. “If I am spared to that moment, my sword will not sleep. ”

A sigh escaped the company, as if the whole body were a single person.

The Bishop of Albinkirk turned away in anger.

The captain squared his shoulders. “Company!” he called, as if his voice had never trembled with emotion.

They snapped to attention.

“Take your proper,” he called, “distance.”

The corporals slipped out of the front line and went forward three paces.

The three red lines turned about, and walked off-three paces for the second line, six for the third, nine for the fourth.

He signalled Ser Bescanon, who walked out from the officers’ rank and unsheathed his sword. He saluted with it, and the Red Knight returned his salute and walked off into the rain.

Ser Bescanon’s high cheekbones and long Occitan nose were dripping under his faceless cervelleur. “Have a care for your armour!” he bellowed. “Company-dismiss!”

They ran for shelter. Squires and pages cursed.

The bishop went and stood beside the captain under one of the eaves of the stable. “Revenge?” he asked. “Is that how you motivate them?” His voice was flat with anger.

The captain’s slightly reptilian green eyes seemed to sparkle. “My lord bishop, today-for the first time in a long time, let me add-revenge is what motivates me. They will follow.”

“You spurn everything for which that gentle man stood,” the bishop said.

The captain stood for a moment, tapping his riding gloves impatiently on his armoured thigh. He seemed on the edge of saying something but, instead, he held his peace, and his face became a smooth mask.

Then the mask failed him. The captain leaned close, his eyes very slightly tinged with red, and the bishop had to force himself to stand his ground. “You know,” he said softly, “that gentle man was killed by a shaman-a creature who had been bound. Magisters call it turning. You know it? A creature’s own will is stripped away, and replaced by the control of another. I killed the shaman, my lord bishop, but he was as helpless and as guiltless as your Jesus as a babe. He was a tool. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being a tool and of using others as tools and the whole bloody game.”

This was so far from what the bishop had expected that he had readied a very different argument. So he had to fold away his text, and take a deep breath.

“Then don’t play,” he said.

The captain’s eyes were a calm green again and the threat of emotional violence seemed to have subsided. He shrugged. “Do you know the questions that are asked of a knight at his making, my lord?”

The bishop nodded.

“I believe in those questions,” the captain said. “Who will protect the weak? Who will defy the enemy? Who will defend the widow and the orphan, the king, and the queen? Even, when forced to it, Holy Mother Church?”

The bishop blinked. “Jesus said we should turn the other cheek. Jesus said nothing of a triumph by violence.”

“Yes, well.” The captain smiled. “I think Jesus would have had a hard time with Bad Tom.” His riding gloves struck the steel of his cuisses with a snap.

“For now, though, the answer to those questions is-I will. I will defy the enemy. I’ve finished sacrificing my pieces one at a time.” He shook himself.

The bishop smiled. “You aren’t even talking to me, are you?”

The captain shrugged.

“I’m going to send you a new chaplain,” the bishop said.

Snap went the gloves.

“Make sure he’s a good jouster,” the captain said.

Ser Alcaeus was drawn to the walls. In his life, he had known much sweetness and much horror, but no experience had equalled the intensity-and the terror-of the minutes after the walls were breached in the siege of Albinkirk. He went to the stretch of northern walls that he had held, and met there-to his stupefaction-a young crossbowman he had known during the siege.

“By Saint George,” Ser Alcaeus said. He embraced the man. “Stefan?”

“Mark, and it please my lord,” the young man said.