“Don’t speak to me of sentiment. This is a thing of power.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sarah cursed mentally. She had no fully-formed plan, but the ideas she did have (stall, try to stalemate the parties chasing her against each other, gain time so her reservoir of magical strength could be replenished, and look for an escape route) were jeopardized by the Lazars’ presence. They were impatient, aggressive and imbalancing.
At least Hooke was gone.
But what was happening to the Martinite?
Until the moment when the Lazars had reappeared, she’d felt satisfied with the course of events. She had recovered the regalia. Sir William had avenged her father’s murder upon the body of the dragoon Berkeley (though Thomas had yet to pay his due). Enemies loomed, but they had kept each other in check, and she had felt confident that with time, she would be able to prevail.
If nothing else, with time she would recover enough mana to fly her party down from the top of the bluff and make an escape. She imagined them all leaping off the head of the Serpent Mound, and herself drawing energy from the ley as she got close enough, and at the last second, catching them all in mid-air.
But the presence of the Lazars, and the possible transformation of Ezekiel Angleton into…something else…were oil thrown onto the coals. What would he do? She trembled at the memory of Hooke’s deathly magic, of herself pointing a gun at Thalanes’s head and pulling the trigger.
Ezekiel Angleton stepped closer to the Lazars, nodding a welcome.
They nodded back.
Angleton nodded again. Was unspoken communication passing between them?
The Martinite looked pale, tired, nervous, and sick. There was something wrong with his aura; black spots dotted it, almost as if it were dirty. His face was filthy, too. The Yankee priest stepped forward and knelt beside Berkeley’s body, fouling his boots and trousers in the captain’s gore, and then his sleeves as well as he laid both his hands on the dead dragoon’s bloody skull.
“I suppose this ends the pretense of a kind invitation from my loving relative.” Sarah said. Sir William and Cal had both drawn closer to her, and Sir William had reloaded his pistols.
“My invitation, however, remains,” the chevalier reminded her. He stood with his arms crossed; did that reveal impatience or discomfort? “Tell me, Your Majesty, what you would require in order to find my proposition attractive?”
Was there any condition under which Sarah would submit herself to the chevalier’s control? Of course there was. If the alternative were death, or capture and carting off to Philadelphia, she’d surrender to the chevalier.
Otherwise, though…
Besides, however collected and commanding the chevalier might appear to her normal sight, when she looked at his aura she saw shiftiness, deceit, malice, and greed. She didn’t trust him at all.
She had the regalia. She had her rights to vindicate.
And she had her brother and sister to protect.
“I’m considering the question,” she said.
What was Angleton doing? He still knelt by the dead Cavalier’s body, cradling Berkeley in his arms. And talking to him. Her heart beat quicker as she noticed with her Second Sight that wisps of black smoke coiled up from Ezekiel’s mouth.
Sir William couldn’t see the smoke, but he must have shared her sudden unease. “Get up from the body, Father. It’s too late for last rites.”
Sarah looked again at Sir William’s wounds and saw the dark red trickling down his trousers from his chest. Could the regalia help them? The Orb of Etyles—it was magically powerful, Thalanes had said. No, that wasn’t quite right.
He’d said it was a thing of magical power.
But what did it do? Might it be a reservoir, like Thalanes’s brooch? She slipped a hand into the satchel and brushed the cool metallic sphere with her fingertips, willing it to surrender its power to her, to open its secrets.
Nothing happened.
“Yaas, he accepts.” Angleton looked over his shoulder to the Lazars. They grinned.
“That’s enough, suh,” Sir William ordered the priest. “Stand back.”
Angleton leaned closer over the body and kissed its mouth, breathing into its lungs. “Ani mekim otakh mehakever.”
A voice in Sarah’s head screamed.
The black smoke curling from Angleton’s mouth plunged into Berkeley’s body, filling it from head to toe.
Sir William pointed his pistol at the Blues’ chaplain and cocked it. “Now, damn you!”
Ezekiel Angleton stood. His mouth was twisted into an obscure, devious smile, and he had blood on his lips and chin, smearing the charcoal mark underneath. “Too late.” The priest staggered and nearly fell.
A long, slow hiss escaped the lips of Daniel Berkeley, pulling with it thin tendrils of the black necromantic fog. As Sarah stared, the dragoon captain twitched and his eyes rolled slowly back into his head, leaving him with bloodshot white orbs. The Cavalier’s wounds blackened and clotted over, his skin grew pale and a curled rictus seized his lips. His nails and hair lengthened.
Slowly, as if testing new muscles, Daniel Berkeley the Lazar rose to his full height. He stepped across the still-drying slick of blood left by Berkeley the man, and stooped to gather his pistols.
“Hell’s Bells!” Sir William growled.
Sarah wanted to scream.
“Now, child, I believe it’s my turn.” Ezekiel Angleton stepped forward, as did the three Lazars, all reaching for weapons on their belts.
“Stop!” Simon Sword cried. A shimmering curtain of green fell across the plaza in the sight of Sarah’s witchy eye, and the Martinite and his Lazars all froze.
“Let me go!” Angleton shrieked, but the little blond man ignored him and faced Sarah.
“Your Majesty.” Both the blond man and the great heron-headed spirit bowed, together, as they spoke together, mouths synchronized like a puppeteer and his doll. “You impress me with your resolve and your knack for survival.”
“I’m Appalachee.” She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage. “We’re tough.” Simon Sword was about to propose marriage to her again. Could she accept? And on what terms? On the same terms on which she could accept the chevalier—if there were no other choice. But didn’t she have to come to some sort of agreement with him, or face the imminent attack of the Lazars, not to mention the gendarmes and the beastkind?
And what did the mysterious Heron King really want from her? Was it, after all, marriage? Or was it only marriage? The golden sword of her great-grandfather, with its crested bird’s head on one side of the hilt and plowshare on the other, came to mind.
“I admire toughness,” Simon Sword said. “My friend Bill is tough.”
Bill snorted.
“Do you have a proposal?” Sarah asked, instantly regretting her choice of words.
“My proposal remains the same. Marry me, Sarah Elytharias Penn. Marry me and I will destroy your enemies. Marry me and you and I together will rule the Mississippi, and the Ohio, and all the lands between the saguaro deserts and the polar ice. In Cahokia you will be a queen, east of the Mississippi I can make you empress, and in Pueblo and the Great Green Wood, we will be worshipped together as gods!”
“I expect that would be a wedding that would make the social calendar,” she mused.
The blond man and giant green thing nodded together. “Wouldn’t you say that is a more appropriate mating than with a…how did your friend Calvin say it?... a jumped-up mayor’s son?”
“If you wish to marry a beast, Your Majesty,” the chevalier said, sniffing, “I have the finest stables and kennels west of Philadelphia. I believe I can still offer you the better match.”
“You’re generous,” Sarah said to Simon Sword.
Cal ground his teeth so hard Sarah feared he’d shatter them.
“But you don’t really want to marry me,” she finished.
“I don’t?” The blond man smiled.
“You want this,” she said, and drew the golden sword from its improvised hanger. It glittered in the air in the center of the plaza, surprisingly light in her hand and pulsing green in her Second Sight.
“Careful,” Cal cautioned her under his breath.
Simon Sword’s eyes gleamed and his smile became stiff.
She was right.
“You can’t have the sword by marriage,” she told him, “but I might be willing to make a trade.”
The Frenchman’s aide suddenly became very agitated. “Don’t do it, Your Majesty.”
The chevalier looked sharply at his seneschal. “Is there some reason I should care about the sword, René?”
The Creole shook his head and averted his eyes.
“I know that blade,” Simon Sword admitted. “It belonged to me, before my father gave it away. I would like to have it back, for sentimental reasons.”
“Don’t speak to me of sentiment,” Sarah said. “This is a thing of power.”
“It is.”
“This is a thing of your power,” she continued, “and you want it back. What is it worth to you?”
“Yes, it’s a thing of my power, as you have your crown of oaths and your ley magnet.” Simon Sword considered. “Very well, let us bargain. I have already offered to make you a queen, an empress, and a goddess, and you have rejected these things. Perhaps you should tell me what you desire.”
Du Plessis strangled back a cry.
“Silence!” his master ordered him.
“Make him pay,” Cal counseled her in a whisper. “Iffen he’s chased you all around and done all he’s done because of that there sword, then he really wants it. The advantage is yours, and you shouldn’t ought to git less’n jest about everything.”
She nodded. Ley magnet? Did Simon Sword know what the Orb of Etyles did, and had he just told her? No time to explore now, and she didn’t want to expose her own ignorance by asking questions. She needed to get off the mountain.
“Three things,” she said finally. “First, my enemies. I want the Lazars obliterated.”
“Easy,” said the Heron King.
Ezekiel Angleton scowled.
“I want the Imperial officers returned to Penn lands and the chevalier and his men to New Orleans.”
“That can be done,” the Heron King agreed, “also easily.” The Creole looked pale and the chevalier uneasy. “Do you intend this all as one of your three requests? By my count, you have asked for three things already.”
“I’m not done asking,” Sarah told him. “Besides, you’ve already told me the things I’ve asked so far can be done easily.”
Simon Sword was quiet a moment, then laughed. The little man’s chuckle was modest and soft, but the great green spirit behind and above him threw back its head and roared in hilarity. “Well done, Sarah Elytharias Penn. Very well, I would like to hear the rest of your requests.”
“Second, I want all the beastfolk you brought with you today to swear an oath of loyalty to me. A binding oath on the Sevenfold Crown.” Sarah was continuing to guess, and from the look of surprise and interest on Simon Sword’s face, she thought she was guessing right. Thalanes had described the crown as a thing of power, and Sarah had a hard time believing its power was purely symbolic, that the mere absence of a symbol of unity could result in fifteen years of strife among Cahokia’s nobles. The crown must have some less symbolic power, and that power must have to do with oaths and binding.
She thought ahead in time to the step beyond Wisdom’s Bluff. Escaping her immediate enemies would do her little good if it left her defenseless. She wanted a force, an escort, protection; she wanted to ride into her father’s kingdom at the head of an army.
“That is no small request.” Simon Sword’s faces were solemn. “But it may be possible, provided they are willing. I may use strong persuasion, but I must respect the free will of my subjects.”
“Of course,” Sarah agreed. Was he telling the truth?
“And there is a final thing you desire,” the Heron King prompted her.
Sarah took a calming breath and made her wildest guess of all. “The sword has a complement. A plowshare, stamped with the image of a heron’s head and a sword. You have it, and I want that as well. In exchange for all those things, yes, I will give you the sword.” She wasn’t sure such a plowshare existed, and she didn’t know what power it would have if it did, but it seemed like it must exist, and if she was going to surrender the power of the Heron King’s sword—whatever that was—she should at least get its counterpart.
Simon Sword was quiet.
Sarah turned to the chevalier. “And as to you, My Lord Chevalier, I must respectfully decline your offer at this time. However, I would like to be at peace with your land, and I welcome future embassies, including any future emissaries carrying more articulated proposals of marriage.”
“What?” Cal gasped. The chevalier’s facial expression looked perplexed, but Sarah thought that his aura had an angry tone to it.
Simon Sword broke his silence with a loud and hearty laugh. “You are bold, Sarah Elytharias Penn! I admire that, too. You ask too much, however. The plowshare you refer to is part of my own regalia, one of my things of power. Why would I ever give it to you?”
Bull’s eye.
“Because,” Sarah said, “you want the sword more. You are Simon Sword, not Peter Plowshare, and whatever bargain my forefathers made with yours…or, perhaps, with you, it has stripped you of power. Maybe that was the purpose of the bargain, to contain your might on the day when the reign of Peter Plowshare ended and the reign of Simon Sword recommenced. Very well then, I will help restore you to power. I will give you the sword. For the price named.” If she was right, she was unleashing a dark power on the world. So be it.
It fell to her to decide, and decide she would.
The blond man smiled, but the specter of Simon Sword frowned. “I will give you everything but the plowshare. That is generous on my part.”
“Hold out, Sarah,” Cal whispered. “You got him.”
“It’s not enough,” she said. “I need it all.” She couldn’t possibly get everything she asked for; what did she need most? If she asked for the removal of her foes, could she ride alone into Cahokia? If she asked for the loyalty of the beastkind soldiers, would that be enough to help her defeat the Lazars, the Blues, and the gendarmes? Or might she get the chevalier on her side? And could she, after all, figure out how to use the Orb of Etyles, not at some future moment, but now, today, here on the bluff, and in time to use it against her enemies?
“You can’t have it all, Your Majesty,” the Heron King said. “I’m not a giving man, and the price you ask is too dear. If you insist on having the plowshare, very well, you may, but you will have it and nothing else.”
That wasn’t enough. The plowshare was as large an unknown to her as the sword, and at least if she had the sword she could poke it into one of the Lazars and see if it did anything. “The plowshare and one of my other requests,” she countered.
Simon Sword smiled on both his faces. “Very well,” he said slowly, “I will give you the plowshare and one of your other requests. Not one of your other two, but one of your other four. Do you need reminding of what they were?”
“I remember.” Destroy the Lazars, get rid of the Imperials, get rid of the chevalier and his men, receive the loyalty of the beastmen. Sarah pondered. The Orb of Etyles was a thing of power. Simon Sword had described it as a “ley magnet,” and it seemed he ought to know what he was talking about—the more she heard, the more Sarah found her family was entangled with the Heron King.
She opened her satchel and took out the Orb. She looked into it, and with her witchy eye she focused on the blue glow of the Orb’s aura, trying to see into it, through it, not looking for a vision, but a hint at the device—
there it was. Now that she knew what she was looking for, she saw it. Magnet was not a good description; the Orb was a connection, a tunnel, and looking through that tunnel Sarah saw chambers of light, rooms pulsating with the green of the great rivers below. The Orb was a conduit, and she knew that with it she could draw power from distant leys. Might she also be able to draw out power in a larger stream?
The plain gray iron ball was quite literally a thing of power.
If only Thalanes were here, he could use such a tool to work mighty magic.
Could she simply now fly away? She looked at the angry faces of the Lazars and Ezekiel Angleton, the anticipating look in the eyes of the Heron King, and the cool façade of the chevalier. They all wanted her, and they would not willingly surrender.
The time had come for resolution. No more running.
She looked at the chevalier, and he met her gaze with guarded eyes. She thought she could get him to ally with her, or at least persuade him to stand down. The Creole twitched, which gave her pause, but she addressed the Frenchman anyway.
“My Lord Chevalier,” she said, “shall I expect your embassies?”
He held his face impassive for long moments, then turned to look carefully at Simon Sword and at the frozen Lazars. Finally, he nodded. “I will send them, Your Majesty.” His aura glowed with a tone as guarded as his expression.
“I agree to your terms,” Sarah said, turning again to the Heron King. “I want the loyalty of the beastfolk.”
“No!” The Creole pulled a pistol from his belt.
“René!” the chevalier shouted, spinning on his own man and grabbing for the wrist of his gun hand.
The seneschal pointed his gun at her—
Bang!
Acrid smoke stung her eyes and Sarah flinched, but no bullet touched her flesh.
Bang!
A second shot shattered the air, and this time Sarah saw gray plumes from the Creole’s pistol, firing pan, and muzzle, but he was toppling over backward, his aim was high and his bullet disappeared into the afternoon sky.
Sarah looked to her side and saw Sir William standing with one of his pistols calmly extended at du Plessis, smoke drifting from its mouth. “I regret to say it, suh,” he called to the fallen man, “but I warned you.”
“Thank you, Sir William,” Sarah said. “I seem to fall deeper into your debt.”
“Not at all, Your Majesty.” He raised his hat with his injured arm. “It is I who continue to fall deeper into your service. I find it satisfying, though not without its moments of piquancy.”
He took bone measure and powder horn in hand and began reloading the fired weapon.
The chevalier knelt beside his aide, listened to his breathing, and felt his pulse at his throat. “He lives, but not for very long.”
Sarah looked at the Creole. Sir William’s bullet had hit him in the chest, and had probably entered his lung. Why had the man attacked her, apparently against his lord’s wishes?
“Shall we make the exchange now?” the Heron King asked.
Sarah looked at the Lazars, frozen dead-white and enraged in the middle of a forward stride, along with their companion, and possibly new leader, Ezekiel Angleton. Father Angleton, hater of the Firstborn and Christian priest, who had proven himself a practitioner of black magic.
Behind them, as if they cast a great collective shadow, she fancied she saw the unassuming English country gentleman whose face she had seen in a dozen portraits—Oliver Cromwell, the Necromancer.
“Yes,” she said.
The trees and the plaza vanished. With them went the Lazars, Angleton, the chevalier, and his dying man.
* * *
Sarah stood in a columned hall. The pillars were towering conifers, with reddish-barked boles bigger around than the supports of the St. Louis Cathedral, but running off into visual indistinctness in stately rows. Under her feet was a carpet of emerald green moss; shafts of white daylight pierced the shade from high in the forest canopy above.
With her stood her companions and Simon Sword. The Heron King had left his borrowed human body on the Serpent Mound, and stood before her now in his full majesty. He towered above her like a giant, not a mere aura now, but a hulking, fear-instilling, trollish thing of flesh and bone, with the great crested head of a heron. His aura was the same sparkling green, but his physical person was covered in fine white feathers, iridescent when struck directly by the light. His black eyes were all pupil, and infinitely deep.
“Sweet wounds of Heaven.” Sir William retreated half a step.
You see I am handsome in my own person, the Heron King said. Sarah heard his voice like Hooke’s, in her head. It is not too late to reconsider our bargain. This—he turned to gather all the trees and shadow about them with a sweep of his arm—would be one of your palaces.
Sarah looked closer, and saw that the columned forest hall sparkled in many colors with berries, vines, and wildflowers. The air was crisp and sweet, and she was tempted to lay down her cares and be done, surrender to the importunings of Simon Sword and become his queen. She might not be free, but could she not be safe and happy without freedom?
But then she saw the stricken look on Calvin’s face.
“Send your embassies later,” she said. “For now, let’s keep the bargain we’ve made.”
The Heron King laughed again, and waved his arm. Suddenly the forest hall before Sarah was filled with a crowd of beastfolk warriors. They snorted and shrieked in surprise, but held their ranks. Perhaps they were accustomed to such strange goings-on.
And were they really there in person? Or was this some sort of shared vision?
Sarah scrutinized the beastkind. They were all man-shaped, bipeds standing mostly on their hind legs, but she spotted among them the faces of wolves, eagles, bears, stags, bison, and even fish. She saw ape arms, immense folded wings, furred legs terminating in all manner of hooves, and even one creature that looked like a forest sloth, though shrunken to the height of a man. They wore a motley assortment of armor, chain and plate, and carried an equally picaresque array of swords, spears, hammers, and axes. A few had bows or crossbows slung over their backs. They had the collective musk of a farm, and savage stares.
Could Sarah really lead such a regiment?
She turned to look at Sir William and saw that he stared back at the beastkind, meeting their fierce stares with his own unflinching green gaze. If she couldn’t do it, Sir William could.
The Heron King addressed them in a shout that boomed loud in Sarah’s mind. Warriors of the Mississippi! You served my father brave and true, as you have served me! I am warmed by your affection, strengthened by your loyalty, and proud to be in your company! Never has this hall seen a worthier band!
A general snorting and stamping of hooves seemed to indicate a pleased reaction.
Simon Sword turned and bowed his head to Sarah. Now I must ask of you a great sacrifice! Some of you will die today and be gathered again into the earth, but that is not the sacrifice I mean. More pleased and rowdy tumult. This woman is Ophidian, the daughter of Kyres Elytharias, called the Lion of Missouri, and rightful Queen of Cahokia. She has agreed to return to me the Heronblade, so that I may rage against the kingdoms of men as is my true and only destiny.
Sarah swallowed back an uneasy feeling.
In return, I have sworn I will give her your service. Sarah expected at this point that the excited noises would turn to outrage, or at least die down, but they continued. Understand clearly what I ask, my warriors. Those of you who agree to my request will enter her service by an oath upon the famous Sevenfold Crown, which she bears. This is an oath you will not be able to break, and you will serve her to the end of your days. If necessary, you will serve her even against me.
The noise quieted slightly, but the beastkind still champed and snarled in approval. As the Heron King paused, the beastfolk turned their heads and Sarah felt dozens of animal eyes upon her. She stood as straight and tall as she could and gazed back, trying to broadcast confidence.
I can only ask, Simon Sword continued, in this matter I cannot command obedience. I will turn my back, and any who wish to continue in my service may leave the hall, with no shame or punishment. All who accede to my request by staying will then take their oaths and will return to the rivers with their new queen.
He turned his back.
Sarah looked at the beastkind, challenging them with her eyes. They looked back and did not look away.
None of the beast-shaped fighters left the hall.
Simon Sword pivoted to face the warriors again and smiled. Thank you, my sons and daughters. In these, the last moments of your service to me, know that it is you who have brought me back to my throne.
Then the Heron King stepped aside, leaving Sarah and her companions with a crowd of expectant beastkind soldiers.
“Sir William,” she said, “I have no experience with military oaths. Can you devise one appropriate to the occasion and administer it for me?”
Sir William nodded thoughtfully and stepped forward, facing the beastmen but not obscuring their view of Sarah. Sarah replaced the golden sword in its hanger and took the Orb of Etyles in both hands. She looked into it and saw through it, within easy reach, the mighty green mana-currents of the Mississippi River.
She reached out with her spirit and seized hold of that power, drawing it to her. She felt her own reservoir and Thalanes’s brooch fill instantly, and the overflow was enormous, so great that it felt like it might burn her out and leave her a husk if she handled it for very long at all; for the moment, she held it ready and extended her soul into the Sevenfold Crown, examining it and trying to determine how it worked.
“Raise your right hand…or foreleg,” Sir William barked to the rows of beastmen, “and repeat after me.”
The crown shivered, and Sarah sensed within it conduits going out much as the orb presented to her conduits coming in. As Sir William began the oath, pausing every few words to let the dozens of animal-rough voices follow, she drew power from the Mississippi through the Orb of Etyles into her own body, feeling it like an electric tingle, and pushed it back out again through the Sevenfold Crown.
In the vision of her witchy eye, she saw green light flow into her body, and blue light stream back out of her, through the seven points of the crown, spreading in a wide arc to strike each of the swearing beastmen in the eyes.
“I,” Sir William began, “say your name—” here there was a confusion of barking, snuffling and hooting noises, “hereby swear upon the Sevenfold Crown of Cahokia my faithful allegiance to Her Majesty, Sarah Elytharias Penn, rightful Queen of Cahokia and heir to the Penn lands. I swear to uphold her rights against all challenge, to defend her person and her honor against all threats, and to do her will in all things, not sparing my own blood or life. So help me God and all the powers that be!”
Sarah let go of the stream of power with relief.
The oath echoed with a growling buzz. Sir William turned to face Sarah again, and executed a deep bow; the beastkind followed his example. The Cavalier was bloody and tired, but his expression was one of pure exultation.
“Your Majesty,” he said.
“My warriors!” Sarah called, stepping forward to face the crowd. “I thank you for your oaths and for your loyalty. This is your commander, Captain Sir William Johnston Lee. You will follow his orders in the execution of your promise.”
Sir William bowed to Sarah again, as did all the beastfolk.
Simon Sword presented himself with a short bow, holding in his hands (feathered on their backs; a wing-like membrane hung from his arms and shoulders) a small plowshare. It had the same glittering golden appearance as the sword, glowing similarly green in her Second Sight, and the Heron King showed her both sides, so that she could see the heron head carved into one side of the plowshare’s blade and the image of a sword carved into the other. The Heronplow, he told her. Your foundations will be solid, your boundaries known, your fields fruitful, and your people at peace with each other.
He held it out to her.
Sarah slid the Heronsword from the satchel strings where it rested. It felt heavy in her hands. “Do you not wish for peace, solid foundations, and fruitful fields?”
He shook his great crested head. Those are the works of my father, and I despise them. I am the bringer of change, the avenger of time, the harbinger of justice and war.
What horrors was Sarah unchaining? But she had made her choice already.
Sarah exchanged the sword for the plow.
The Heronplow was light, as the sword had been, and she placed it in her satchel, nestling it down below the bird’s nest and other items. In Simon Sword’s hands, the Heronsword seemed to grow, until it was as long as Sarah was tall.
“Do you still seek a bride?” Sarah asked.
The bird face smiled. It is my imperative to find a queen and mate. I believe you will be a mighty ruler of your country, Sarah Elytharias Penn, and would be an excellent queen of my own.
“Send your embassies.” Sarah forced a smile. She feared this strange demigod, and had no desire to be his mate, but as long as he had intention to court her, he might withhold his judgment, change, and war from her and her kingdom.
The Heron King nodded. I will return you now to Wisdom’s Bluff. As it happens, it is not far from here. I will not come with you, so this is farewell. He bent, like an adult kneeling down to a child, and kissed Sarah’s hand. You understand, were his last words to her, that you receive no more help from me.
Sarah nodded calmly, controlling her eyes and her hands though her heart galloped like a runaway horse. She had a flash of terror thinking that the beastmen might not, after all, be loyal to her, and that she might have traded away the Heronsword for nothing, but then she thought of the Sevenfold Crown and the oath Sir William had administered, and the panic passed.
Simon Sword turned to Sir William, who wore a steely expression on his grizzled, weary face. You are my friend, Bill, whether you like it or not. He held out a crescent-shaped ivory horn, yellowed with age, trimmed with battered golden bands and fixed with a thin leather strap. These warriors I am giving into your care are my Household Guard, and no ordinary soldiers. I rejoice at handing them over because I know they have not had a more able commander. You will, however, want this.
Sir William nodded stiffly, took the offered horn and slung it over his shoulder. “It has been an adventure, suh.”
It has, the Heron King agreed, and, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the hall of forest pillars was gone.
* * *
The redwoods were gone and Cal found himself again in the stone plaza on Wisdom’s Bluff, at Sarah’s side and looking down the slope, at two different armies charging up it.
He didn’t glance long enough to tell one from the other, but just saw a wave of mounted men in blue uniforms riding up the hill toward him. Beyond them, at the foot of the hill, Simon Sword’s beastmen soldiers—Sarah’s beastmen—held their position.
But he had no time to worry about the soldiers. Straight ahead, across the plaza, three of the Lazars came sprinting at Sarah. Tom Long-Knife rushed first, pulling a dagger from its sheath. The one-eyed Lazar and Berkeley were one step behind Tom Fairfax and on his flanks, also drawing out blades.
“Bill!” Cal shouted, “git ready, they’re a-comin’ up the slope!”
Then he raised his rifle against his shoulder and shot Black Tom Fairfax.
Tom took the ball in his shoulder, spun away, and dropped.
A hunting call sounded just outside Calvin’s vision—Bill, blowing the Heron King’s horn. Cal gripped his musket like a club and stepped forward, lowering his shoulders to charge; Lord hates a man as won’t get his hands dirty. Sarah had a blank look on her face, and Cal couldn’t risk either of the Lazars getting past him. He braced himself to hit Berkeley with his rifle and throw his body at One-Eye—
Bang!
Berkeley crashed over backward, a shower of black ichor spraying out of his chest, his hat and perruque flying. The last of the Elector’s silver bullets, and good shot, Cathy Filmer.
The abrupt disappearance of his target left him off balance and slightly stumbling, but Cal managed to come in under One-Eye’s swinging knife blade, musket first, held sideways like a bar, and he crashed to the ground on top of the Lazar. He trapped the dead man’s knife hand under his musket and one knee, freeing his right hand to grope at his belt for Chigozie Ukwu’s silver dagger.
Jumpin’ Jerusalem, but as bad as the empty socket was, the white eye was worse.
Bill blew the horn with one eye on the beastmen at the foot of the hill and the other on the chevalier and Jacob Hop, who were crouched over the body of the dead Creole. Sarah’s new soldiers responded to the horn’s call, and broke into a tight charge up the slope, howling an animal war cry.
But the mounted men didn’t slow in their ascent, and Bill faced a dilemma—deal with the soldiers charging up the hill, or deal with the Lazars? He cast a quick glance about the plaza and decided that the Chevalier of New Orleans, however much he was a selfish, ruthless man, would be forced to fight against the Lazars, too.
Sheathing his saber, Bill ran down the hill.
* * *
Ezekiel Angleton hung back at the edge of the plaza, mumbling. Sarah had more immediate problems; the Lazars were going to cut her friends to pieces.
“Help, damn you!” she yelled to the chevalier, who hadn’t joined the fray.
Tom Fairfax rolled silently to his feet, knife in his hand—
Sarah felt in her satchel and her fist closed over the robin’s nest she had stored there—
“Labyrinthum facio!” she shouted, and hurled the nest at the Tom Fairfax. Black Tom reared back, the small tangle of twigs and grass hitting him in the chest and falling to his feet. She willed energy into her spell, drawing a tiny stream of the ley-flow of the Mississippi through the Orb of Etyles and pouring it into the nest to effect her desire.
Her entire body burned.
Tom stopped his charge. He dropped his chin, stared down at the nest and shuffled his feet aimlessly. The knife fell from his hands to the stone of the plaza.
And then Sarah felt something push back against her, through the tangle of twigs and the maze she had turned it into. Angleton.
Sarah furrowed her brow and poured in more power.
* * *
Cal shoved the little silver knife into One-Eye’s throat, afraid that any moment the undead Berkeley would stab him in the back.
A gout of cold, black fluid that spurted out. The Lazar kicked and twitched and finally lay still, his eyes glazing over with a dark film and his eye worms finally stilling their dance.
The captain’s shadow crossed him.
Bang!
Cathy Filmer’s silver bullets were gone, but the force of her lead ball was enough to knock the Cavalier off balance. Cal yanked the blade free and rolled to his feet. Then he heard a hard crunch.
“Stop where you are or I’ll shoot her!” he heard, and he froze.
The Chevalier of New Orleans stood behind Sarah, two pistols pointed at the back of her head. Sarah had one hand in Thalanes’s satchel, which Cal didn’t think the chevalier had noticed, but she looked lost in concentration. Cathy hung to one side, the Lafitte pistols on the ground before her, tangled hair and blood at the corner of her mouth testimony to a failed resistance.
Berkeley recovered his balance and came charging back, sword raised high.
“I can’t!” Cal jumped forward to meet the undead dragoon.
“Fine,” the chevalier conceded. “I’m happy to kill the victor.”
“You sure know how to motivate a feller.” Cal sidestepped a thrust, falling back. He wasn’t used to fighting swordsmen, and his preferred weapon, when he had to fight hand to hand, was the tomahawk. He tightened his grip on the knife and attacked with a series of controlled stabs.
Berkeley was unimpressed, calmly parrying with progressively shorter, tighter strokes. Then Cal was chest to chest with the dead man.
But Cal had fought the Lazars once before. He bumped the other man back with his chest, then dropped, as if he’d tripped.
Berkeley swung for his head, missing for the suddenness of Cal’s fall—
and Cal sliced with the silver knife through the protruding toenails of the Lazar’s lead foot.
The sword came down again, Cal rolled away away, and Berkeley stumbled, his front foot suddenly refusing to move in response to his will.
Berkeley’s attack became awkward, and it caught Cal only lightly across the shoulder as he moved, not cutting through his coat. The Lazar looked astonished and Cal jumped to his feet, twisting to curl the fingers of his wounded arm into the dead man’s long, ragged hair.
Berkeley pulled away and turned, tripping as he moved, pummeling Cal with the hilt of his sword in the chest and arm. The blows hurt and Cal cried out, but he held tight to Berkeley’s mane. The chevalier might kill him afterward, but he couldn’t risk that the Lazar Berkeley would hurt Sarah.
Raising the little silver letter opener, he punched in one quick motion—
slicing all the way through Daniel Berkeley’s hair.
Berkeley dropped like a slaughtered hog.
Cal slipped sideways and almost fell over. He was breathing hard and his muscles ached, but mostly he felt relief.
“Stop right there, boy,” the chevalier commanded him.
Cal winced, tossed aside the handful of greasy hair.
“Well done,” the chevalier said. “Really, I’d much rather deal with you than the Lazars. Dead men can be so irrational.”
“What are you doin’?” Cal asked. Now that Berkeley was down, he had a hard time taking his gaze from Sarah’s face. She looked as if she were concentrating.
Ezekiel Angleton, standing across the plaza, had a similar expression. What in tarnation were they doing?
“Consider this my embassy.” The chevalier took long steps around Cathy and stood on the other side of Sarah to look her in the face, holding his two pistols steady on her the entire time. “How am I received, Your Majesty?”
Sarah said nothing.
The chevalier laughed and looked back to Cal. “Now, you kill the Lazars.”
Cal took a closer look at Tom Long-Knife. The Lazar still stood staring at his feet, mumbling without words and aimlessly scratching the stones of the plaza with his long toenails. Sarah must have done something to the dead man.
Calvin hadn’t yet killed a man, he realized, thinking back to his last private conversation with the Elector, at least not that he was sure, though he’d knocked a few of those gendarmes pretty hard, and it was possible they might have died of it. But he had for certain dispatched a fair number of things that looked like men, and he reckoned the Elector would give him credit.
He raised the silver letter opener.
* * *
Sarah had miscalculated. The chevalier had not swallowed his frustration and peacefully ridden away as she’d hoped. She struggled against Angleton, feeling as if she were pushing with her entire body against a stone wall. There was something behind Angleton, something pushing through him and giving him strength.
She hoped—desperately—she had enough power to intervene against the chevalier, too.
Her hand in the satchel closed around the sticky wad of pine resin and an egg. They would do just fine; she crushed them together and, with only half her conscious mind, put together a final piece of magic.
Pistolas viscosas facio, she spoke in her mind, and she turned a rivulet of power with her will, directing it to gum up the chevalier’s weapons.
Sparks filled her mind. A hammer blow pounded into her, over the entire length of her body all at once and deep into her soul. She cried out and dropped to her knees.
She let go of the flow of the Mississippi’s power.
What was that?
Her spell had failed. Far away, she saw the chevalier laughing as she fell forward onto the ground.
* * *
Sarah crumpled to the dirt.
In that instant, Tom Long-Knife looked up from his feet.
“Jerusalem,” Cal swore, but the Lazar hesitated and Cal plunged the silver knife into his throat.
Black Tom Fairfax’s eyes trembled and jumped in their black-jellied sockets, raining worms down his rotting clothing. The Lazar collapsed in a shower of cold black gore, and when he hit the ground, Cal thought the look on his face was one of relief.
“No!” Ezekiel Angleton cried.
The chevalier laughed mirthlessly and looked down at Sarah. “Some people are born with magical talent. Others hire it.” His body seemed to be covered in a shimmering field of white.
“Some of us jest do without,” Cal said sourly.
The little Dutchman had stood up from where he watched over the dying Creole and now moved over to stand by the chevalier. He looked nervous, an expression Cal hadn’t seen on that face before. If he wasn’t Simon Sword anymore, who was he? Hop held something in his hand, hidden against his wrist and in the end of his sleeve so Cal couldn’t get a good look at it. The chevalier gave him a look of contempt and then returned his attention to his targets.
“Drop the knife,” the chevalier said to Cal.
Jacob Hop attacked.
The thing hidden in his sleeve glinted strangely as he pulled it out and spun it around, and Cal just had time before the little Dutchman stabbed the object into the chevalier’s side to see that it was a knife.
A silver knife, from the shine of it.
Sparks and blood showered from the wound and the chevalier roared. He jerked away from the blond man and turned, aiming his pistols—
and Cal jumped, crashing into him from the side, bowling him over—
and knocking the aim of his two pistols awry.
Bang! Bang!
The chevalier’s guns went off, and the Dutchman fell back, dropping his knife; he’d been hit.
“Cathy!” Cal shouted. He tossed her the silver letter opener and yanked his tomahawk from his belt.
* * *
Bill pulled a long pistol from the pocket of his coat as he ran down the hill. He would go out fighting.
Honor in defense of innocence!
The first of the Blues were only a hundred feet away. They saw him and didn’t slow, spurring their horses to gallop faster up the stone road. They had fixed bayonets to their Paget carbines, which could be devastating in a foot battle, but here worked to Bill’s advantage. The riders had no good way to carry the carbines with the bayonets attached (the blades would slice through the long holsters that ordinarily held the guns on the horses’ shoulders), other than to hold them in their hands. So the Blues could shoot at Bill with their carbines (less than ideal; a dragoon rode to the battle, but dismounted to shoot), or use them like short lances (also not very effective), but they couldn’t draw their pistols or sabers to get at him without abandoning their carbines.
It would at least buy him a few precious seconds while his enemies switched weapons. It wasn’t much, but given that he was charging a line of twenty-four mounted soldiers, Bill was happy for any edge he could get.
He hoped some of the dragoons might remember him and feel loyalty, or might have taken to heart what they’d seen and heard in the St. Louis Cathedral. Every soldier who peeled away and left the fight was one less soldier who could make it to the top of the bluff.
Or one less Bill would have to kill.
Also, the sun was on Bill’s shoulder; maybe it would get in the eyes of the dragoons.
And he was certainly glad he had his hat back.
Behind the Blues, Bill saw the beastmen had overtaken the chevalier’s men and were routing them. Guns still fired, and there were wounded beastkind, perhaps even dead ones, but the gendarmes were decimated and in retreat.
Bill skidded to a halt. If he could only slow down the Blues long enough for the beastmen to catch them, together they might stop the dragoons from reaching Sarah. He raised his pistol and shot at the first dragoon.
Bang!
Or at least, at his horse. The bullet hit the animal in the chest and at its next bound its legs failed, and the great beast crashed cheek-first to the stones. Its rider was crushed beneath it, trapped by a leg that was mangled in the fall, but Bill had no time for his howls.
His first gun discharged, Bill tossed it aside—there would be no reloading in this brawl—and yanked the other horse pistol from his pocket. The second dragoon had his carbine raised in one hand, clamping the stock under his arm to try to steady the ungainly weapon.
Bang! The musketball went wide, plunking into the earth and throwing up tufts of grass.
Bang! Bill’s shot was true. He tossed his second pistol aside, too, as the second horse shuddered to the earth, its blood spilling out.
The first wounded soldier struggled to reach his carbine, which had fallen just out of his grasp. Bill would have liked to save a shot and use his saber, but he had no time, and Obadiah’s pistol, drawn and aimed at the dragoon’s head, was quicker.
Bang! Bill dropped Obadiah’s pistol and picked up the carbine. He regretted killing the man, but it was unavoidable, and then he had no more time for regret.
The second dragoon had landed better than his comrade, rolling away from his collapsed mount, and raced at Bill now, saber in his hand. Behind him, two mounted men had reached the unnatural bank now blocking the road, formed of the corpses of two horses, and they split. One rode uphill to get around the horseflesh blockade and come at Bill from his left, and the other skirted the corpses on the downhill side to come at Bill’s right. Guns boomed downhill, but the advantage of being surrounded by his enemy was that Bill had become a very difficult target to see, much less hit.
The beastmen had almost overtaken the hindmost of the Blues.
Bill raised the carbine to his shoulder and fired into the saber-wielding man’s chest, dropping his assailant in his tracks. Without missing a beat he turned and hurled the weapon at the attacker to his right; it was too heavy to throw like a javelin, but Bill managed a sort of caber toss that sent the bladed gun whirling like a pinwheel at its target.
Then he dove to the body of the first dragoon, scrabbling for the man’s pistols. He came up with guns in both hands, just in time to see that his uphill attacker had tossed aside his bayonet-carbine in favor of his long sword, which he now sent slashing down at Bill’s head—
Bill swung at the blade with the pistol in his left hand; he caught the sword with a wooden-metallic chink! and knocked the attack slightly, just slightly, to the side—
the saber bit into Bill’s already-wounded shoulder and he fell back, crying out in pain.
“Damn your eyes!” Bang!
Bill’s shot caught the man under his chin, knocking him out of the saddle. The dragoon’s horse reared riderless over Bill, hooves lashing out in all directions. Bill’s downhill attacker cursed, his way blocked by the panicked horse, and sheathed his saber, reaching instead for one of his pistols.
Bill pulled the trigger on his second gun—
nothing happened. Bill risked a quick look at the weapon and saw that in parrying the saber blow, its hammer had been sheared off. Bill lurched forward to his knees and threw himself at another dead soldier, grabbing for guns.
Bang!
The downhill attacker’s pistol shot bit Bill in the thigh. Bill grunted in pain and silently thanked Heaven for the distraction of the rearing stallion, knowing the ball could easily have hit him between the shoulderblades instead. He jerked a long handgun clean of its holster and turned to take a careful shot, blowing his assailant out of his saddle and stone cold dead while the man struggled to draw his second pistol.
A volley of gunfire downhill told Bill the beastmen had overtaken the Blues. He drew another dead man’s pistol and rolled onto his back, facing down the road at the charging Blues.
Bang!
A pistol ball hit Bill in the chest like a hammer, knocking the air out of him. Bill held his fire and sucked wind back into his lungs for a few doubtful seconds until his vision stopped swimming and he could see his new attacker, an older dragoon who was drawing a bead on Bill with a second pistol. Behind the man, the other dragoons were turning back, and a growling, snarling wall of beast-headed death was swallowing up the unit.
BANG!
The two guns fired simultaneously.
Bill smiled as the soldier’s ball took him in his unwounded right arm, and he lost consciousness.
His last waking thought was how much he’d like just one shot of whisky.
He deserved it.
* * *
Hitting the chevalier hurt Cal, but it knocked the other man off balance.
The chevalier staggered away, dropping his pistols and fumbling at the sword hanging at his belt; Cal leaped forward again with his tomahawk in motion, bringing the war axe down on the chevalier’s arm.
The tomahawk struck the shimmering, glowing chevalier and snapped back. A shock that burned like fire and tingled in his bones jolted through Cal’s arm and into his shoulder, and in its bouncing back, he narrowly avoided being brained by his own weapon. The axe sprang across the plaza and clattered onto the stones.
Cal had given away the silver knife too soon.
“Jerusalem!” He grabbed at the braided leather lariat. He’d roped that Mocker on the Natchez Trace, so why not the Chevalier of New Orleans?
Cal slipped open the loop just as the chevalier’s blade cleared its scabbard and jumped to a defensive position. “I’ll gut you, boy,” the nobleman snarled.
“Mebbe.” Cal circled left, trying to get outside the man’s guard.
The little Dutchman struggled for breath on his knees, and Cathy seemed to be helping him. There were all the silver daggers.
The chevalier slashed and slashed again. Calvin fell back, feeling the inadequacy of his weapon. “Do you seriously intend to rope me?” the chevalier asked, an amused and incredulous smile on his face. “As if I were cattle?”
“Yessir, pretty much jest like that.” Cal lacked the confidence of his words. He would need a lucky throw to get in over the chevalier’s defense. He thought he might do it, if he could lure the chevalier into a miss, and then throw the loop while the man was extended. Of course, he’d still have his sword in his hand and he’d still be dangerous. And for all Calvin knew, the chevalier’s defensive shield would repulse his lariat, too.
“Is this out of mercy,” the chevalier mocked him, “or incompetence?” He stepped forward for another slash, and Cal almost took his chance, but the swordsman quickly pulled back and the moment passed. Cal saw then that the chevalier bled from his side, where the Dutchman had stabbed him.
“You might get mercy from young Calvin, My Lord.” Cathy Filmer closed in on the chevalier too, to Cal’s left, and in her hand she held Chigozie Ukwu’s little silver letter opener. “I, on the other hand, will happily kill you if you don’t lay down your arms.” She wiped blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
Cal could have kissed her.
Then the Dutchman climbed to his feet, behind the chevalier, and brandished his own silver weapon. “Ja,” said the Dutchman Jacob Hop, startling the chevalier into a sideways stumble to avoid being completely encircled. “Ik ook, Mynheer Chevalier.”
The chevalier snarled a fierce look of anger, and Cal braced himself for a fight. Instead, the chevalier suddenly turned on his heel to run—
Cal threw. His lariat settled over the nobleman’s shoulders, pinned the man’s arms to his sides and brought him to the ground as neatly as any calf. Jacob Hop rushed forward to thrust his silver knife in the chevalier’s face, and tossed the Frenchman’s weapon aside.
“Jest like a little bull calf.” Cal dropped a second loop around the chevalier’s ankles to hogtie him. As he worked, he cast a worried glance at Sarah. She lay unconscious, her crown upside down on the stones before her.
Behind her, the Martinite Ezekiel Angleton knelt over the body of the dead Creole. He leaned over the man, as if he were going to kiss him.
“Hey!” Cal looked around for his tomahawk.
“Merde!” the chevalier grumbled as Cal tightened the knot.
Cathy Filmer crossed the plaza, heading for Ezekiel Angleton.