Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm

“So you’re sayin’-” Mag paused. “That we are coming to resemble the Wild?”

“Mag, the Wild is a term of art used by men to describe all of us who are not men.” Master Smythe smiled wickedly. “Women might do well to join us, but I digress.” He seemed to find himself very funny, and he gasped silently for a moment. When no one joined him, he sighed. “The Wild is not a conspiracy. It’s a way of life. But the longer you are in contact with us, the more like us you’ll become. In fact-” He shrugged. “In fact, those with the long view would say that men-and women-are more adaptable than any of the other interlopers here, and are learning the Wild all too well.” Master Smythe spread his fingers on the table and looked at them with real curiosity. “You know that all the other races fear you. And that you are the-is there a nice way of putting this? The favourite tools of all the Powers. Inventive, endlessly violent, not terribly bright.” He smiled to take away the sting.

“Weapons?” Gabriel asked, his head coming up. “Tools?” He thought for a moment. “Defenders?”

“Goodness, ser knight, you don’t imagine you are from here , do you?” asked the dragon.

“Stop!” Bad Tom said. He got to his feet. “Stop. I’ve had eno’. Ma’ head hurts. I don’ need to know the secrets of the universe. I’m not altogether sure you aren’t talking out o’ your smoky wee arse.”

Father Arnaud got to his feet. He’d never agreed with Tom before, but it seemed a good place to start. “I’m not sure that they can handle any more, Master Smythe. The reality men build is more fragile than they know.”

“You are wise,” Master Smythe said. “Would you like to have back your power to heal?”

Father Arnaud reacted as if he had been struck.

Ser Gabriel rose and stood by him. “That was cruel,” Gabriel said.

Master Smythe looked puzzled. “In truth, I mean no cruelty. The good father-a worthy man, I suspect-has lost his powers due to the workings of a tiny creature… bah, it’s almost impossible to explain. But he thinks it is mysterious, perhaps mystically tied to his sin.” Master Smythe shrugged. “I understand feeling of sin. I believe in the pursuit of excellence, and I have failed myself. Too often.” He smiled like a man who grins through pain. “Perhaps this is why I fancy humans so much. Here.” He slapped Father Arnaud on the back and turned, just as the young woman with the broad shoulders entered with two foaming pitchers of ale.

She curtsied without spilling a drop.

“Do you like trout fishing?” Master Smythe asked.

The young woman lit up like a newly lit lantern. “I love the little ones in the high mountain streams, my lord,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “They’re beautiful when they are young.” He placed the tray on the table and turned back to the room full of knights. “Good evening, allies. Or friends-I’d rather have some friends. The worst is coming. But as I said before: what we do is worth the doing. That’s all the reward we get.” He raised a mug.

All of the people in the room raised theirs. “To victory,” he said.

“To victory,” they all repeated. Master Smythe bowed. Then he took the young woman’s hand. “And the avoidance of negative outcomes.”

“Sir?” she asked.

“We’re going fishing,” Master Smythe said.

The door closed behind them.

Mag shrugged. “The girl wasn’t protesting,” she said.

“Oh, my God,” Father Arnaud said aloud.

Gabriel released a long breath, as if he’d been holding his for a long time. “Just so,” he said.

Morning came-earlier for some and later for others, and for a few, lucky or terribly unlucky as the case might be, there had been no sleep and now there was work.

For Nell, there were six horses to prepare. There was the captain’s magnificent eighteen-hand stallion, Ataelus, a new acquisition from Count Zac, a black demon with a changeable temper and a vicious bite. But on this crisp early day in Marius, Ataelus behaved himself with decorum. His only sign of equine restlessness was engendered by a mare-every few minutes, he’d raise his great head and pull his lips back over his teeth. But he was too well-bred to give voice to his thoughts.

Nell liked him. She put a lot of effort into his glossy black hide. He had four white stockings, which was judged unlucky by Albans and lucky by the steppe nomads of the east. Nell worked her way through her wallet of curry combs, coarse to fine, working at the horse with careful sweeps, wary of the places where his coat changed directions. She hummed as she worked.

She had every reason to be happy. Yesterday, the captain had praised her-by name-for her work. The wound on her face was healing nicely, with a little help from Mag, and would not leave a scar. Best of all, the new archer with all the muscles had made his views clear last night by running his tongue over her cheek.

Eventually she’d had to put a thumb in his side to curb his enthusiasm a little. What he had in mind led to babies, and she had other plans, but it had been delightful nonetheless.

She hummed Sauce’s song. No young cuckoos for her.

When she had three horses done, she went and woke him up. Once she’d made her views on intercourse plain, he’d become a fine companion and a source of warmth. And of fun.

Boys were like horses, Nell had found. A firm hand on the reins, and never a sign of fear, and all went jogging along. “Hey! Sleepy head!” she said, and gave him a loving kick in the ribs.

He mumbled, threw an arm out and got a mouthful of straw.

“Drums will beat any minute now, boyo. Get your muscular arse out of the straw. Ser Bescanon loveth not his defaulters. Hey!” He rolled over to avoid her, and she jabbed calloused thumbs into both his sides.

He exploded out of the straw like something out of the Wild.

She dissolved into giggles.

He tried to kiss her, and she reached into her belt pouch and handed him a five-inch length of liquorice root. “Your mouth smells like the jakes,” she said. “We have standards here, boyo. You took the captain’s silver-get moving.”

He rolled over, his dirty-blond-brown hair full of straw. “What do I do with it?” he asked.

“Farm boys,” she said, rolling her eyes. She was exactly one year from being a farm girl herself. “Captain says that cleanliness keeps you alive and that dirty soldiers die.” She spoke with the conviction of the convert. She knew damn well that the company were cleaner than any enemy they’d met except the Morean guards.

“Do I have to wash?” he asked, as if asking if he had to be turned into a snake by a sorcerer.

“Wednesdays and Sundays when you ain’t fighting,” she said. “Wash and clipped and shaved. When you been wi’ us a year, you can have a beard, but only if the primus pilus says so.”

“By Saint Maurzio!” the boy said. “You have a rule for everything.”

“Yep!” Nell said. “Now get your arse moving. I’ve been working an hour already.”

Out in the inn yard-as big as the drill field of many a castle-the Keeper had allowed four bonfires to burn all night. A hundred men and women were gathered around the four fires, all working-men brought wood, or arranged straight-sided kettles, or stirred them.

Nell took the boy by the hand and walked him across the yard to Ser Michael’s mess. The great knight himself was nowhere to be seen-no one expected knights to cook and clean unless they were in the shit. But his new squire, Robin, was sitting in his pourpoint with his master’s golden knight’s belt of heavy plaques across his knees. He and a pixy-faced Morean girl were polishing the plaques with rags dipped in ash.