Starman

  “I have come to help,” the Goodwife said quietly, her country burr totally gone, and Faraday, looking deep into the Goodwife’s eyes, beheld the eyes of the Mother.

  20

  BROTHER-LEADER GILBERT

  Artor appeared many more times to Gilbert as he hustled Moryson northwards from Nor, and each time Gilbert’s eyes grew a little darker with fanaticism, his mouth a little slacker with ecstasy, and his will hardened. He would do anything, anything, to ensure that Artor and the Seneschal regained their rightful place in Achar.

  Moryson followed placidly behind Gilbert on a horse the man had grudgingly bought him.

  Even though Moryson generally remained quiet and uncomplaining, his presence often irritated Gilbert. Occasionally, but only very occasionally, Moryson would let slip a tart comment that reminded Gilbert too vividly of the days when he had been only a second adviser to the Brother-Leader, and Moryson the trusted friend of forty years’ standing. Didn’t Moryson realise that Gilbert was in charge now? That Gilbert led the Seneschal? That Gilbert stood at Artor’s right hand?

  But even more annoying were Moryson’s occasional absences. The first time Gilbert noticed that Moryson was missing he entered a fugue of anxiety. The man’s horse was there, but not the old man. Had Moryson fallen down a badger’s burrow and broken a frail leg? Had he been snatched by one of the flying filth that Gilbert expected to descend on them any moment? Had he lain down to die among the tall grass and neglected to mention it to Gilbert, several dozen paces ahead? For an hour or more Gilbert searched, calling Moryson’s name, his face running with sweat. What would Artor think if he lost the fool? At the moment, Moryson was his only follower, and Gilbert, much as he disliked the old man, could hardly afford to lose him.

  But just when Gilbert thought that he had vanished altogether, he turned around to see Moryson hobbling across the plain towards him, his face a mask of contrition.

  “It’s my bowels, Gilbert,” Moryson hastily explained. “I am an old man and sometimes my bowels can dribble fluids for hours. Ah, is that my horse behind you?”

  Gilbert turned away, his face green, and didn’t ask again when Moryson disappeared—usually at night, but once or twice during the day as well. He was disgusted by the old man’s weakness. Artor grant me continued health throughout my life, he prayed, whenever Moryson stumbled back into camp, his face pale and damp.

  For some time they moved north, and then north-east, as Artor directed. They found another Brother, a displaced Plough-Keeper, ten days after they started on their divine crusade. He was huddled among the grass, crouched as low as he could get, terrified by the approaching horsemen.

  Gilbert squared his shoulders and spoke in as authoritative a manner as he could manage. “Get up, man. What is your name? Where are you from?”

  The Plough-Keeper, a thin man of middle-age, peered out from underneath his arm, but did not uncurl himself from his protective ball. “My name is Finnis, good master, and I am but a poor sheep-herder travelling this plain to market.”

  Gilbert’s lip curled. “Well, good Finnis, where are your sheep? And what is that fuzzy patch I see at the crown of your head—not a tonsure growing out, is it?”

  Finnis hurriedly buried his head as far as he could under his arm and gave a muffled squeak.

  Gilbert kicked his horse closer. “Get up, Finnis, and behold your Brother-Leader.”

  Very slowly Finnis looked out from beneath his arm. “Brother-Leader?”

  “Brother-Leader Gilbert, man. Now stand up!”

  Finnis almost tripped in his haste to stand. “But…but…I thought…”

  “Well, you thought wrong, you simpleton. The Seneschal has never endured darker days than these, but with the grace and strength of Artor we will walk through them. Surely you know my name…Gilbert? Once adviser to Brother-Leader Jayme?”

  Finnis thought hard, staring at the man before him. He was not dressed like a Brother, but then Finnis was only too well aware that to dress like a member of the Seneschal in these days was foolishness personified. Gilbert? Yes, Finnis remembered that name being on some of the orders he had received from the Tower of the Seneschal. He looked behind Gilbert to the old man, huddled despondently on his horse.

  “And Brother Moryson,” Gilbert said. “My adviser.” Until I find better.

  Moryson’s eyes glinted, but he said nothing.

  “What happened to Brother-Leader Jayme?” Finnis asked Gilbert.

  Gilbert’s face assumed an expression of pious sadness. “Murdered by the foul feathered creatures that block out the sun over the Tower of the Seneschal, Brother Finnis. He died screaming Artor’s name.”

  That was a nice touch, Gilbert thought, not realising how true it was. “I am Artor’s anointed,” he made the sign of the Plough, “and I will keep you safe and shall rebuild the Seneschal to its former glory.”

  Finnis felt the first faint stirrings of hope and he bobbed his head deferentially at Gilbert. “Will you tell me what to do, Brother-Leader Gilbert?”

  “Gladly, Brother Finnis, but not until we stop for evening camp. For the moment you can scramble up behind Moryson.”

  After that day Gilbert’s band grew until, as they approached northern Tarantaise, it numbered eight displaced Brothers of the Seneschal besides himself and Moryson. After they had stumbled across Finnis, they found a Brother every day or two—Gilbert thought Artor must have directed their steps his way, and the Brothers confirmed this by telling him that Artor had appeared in their dreams. Most were displaced Plough-Keepers who had been ejected by their local village after Axis’ army had swung south through Arcness and Tarantaise.

  “How is it that the people have accepted the Forbidden so easily?” they asked one after the other as they told Gilbert their story, and Gilbert always replied, “Because of the foul enchantments the creatures fling their way. But do not worry, Artor will save them yet.”

  Gilbert did not have enough coin to buy every Brother a horse, and compromised by purchasing a cheap horse and cart in Tare. He sent Moryson, well-cloaked, inside the town, reasoning that if the man was caught then it would be little loss. But Moryson re-emerged from the town’s gates after several hours driving a splintered but serviceable cart pulled by a sway-backed mare who looked as old and sad as the old Brother; and who, Gilbert was disgusted to discover, suffered from much the same bowel condition as Moryson himself.

  From that point on they moved faster, Gilbert riding ahead on his horse, Moryson driving the cart with the band of Brothers clinging to its tray.

  At the end of the first week of Frost-month they drove past the Silent Woman Woods; they stayed well to the south, for none of the Brothers wanted to go too close. Only Artor knew what demons had re-inhabited the Woods in recent months.

  “I penetrated deep within those Woods some years past,” Gilbert told the Brothers, for once reining his horse back to the cart so he could talk to them. “Not only did I enter, but I led the BattleAxe and two Axe-Wielders, too terrified to lead themselves. They were assaulted by foul creatures who leaped at them from beneath the very earth, but I fought clear, and saved them from a gruesome death. For what purpose, I know not,” Gilbert sighed melodramatically, “for the BattleAxe has gone on to betray not only the Seneschal, but Artor himself.”

  The Brothers jouncing along in the cart gazed at Gilbert admiringly.

  “I discovered great secrets in the Keep at the centre of the Woods,” Gilbert continued, “but at the same time the BattleAxe released into an unsuspecting world two demons who lived there in the guise of Brothers of the Seneschal. I could not stop him, although I tried valiantly. I think that Achar’s descent into hell started from the moment those fiends were released.”

  There were gasps of horror, but Moryson grinned beneath the hood of his cloak.

  “I am not afraid of the trees,” Gilbert said, “and when Artor tells me the time is right, I shall unleash on them such a storm of righteous anger that they will topple before me. The Ploug
h will win through, and tear the tree stumps out of the earth.”

  But even Gilbert fell silent in two days’ time when they spied the newly planted forest in front of them.

  “That wasn’t there before,” he whispered, “I am sure of it! No-one has ever mentioned this!”

  Moryson pulled the grateful mare to a halt and stared ahead. They had topped a small rise and before them, perhaps a few hundred paces away, sprawled Faraday’s forest. It spread across the horizon for over a league, and all could see that it stretched thick and healthy for many more leagues to the north. Far to the north Moryson could just see the Barrows rising out of the centre of the forest, a blue flame beckoning.

  His companions stared at the forest, eyes and mouths hanging open.

  Not even the Silent Woman Woods had trees as tall, as thick, as powerful as these. Birds fluttered among branches, and as they watched, a brown and black badger, common to these plains, emerged from its burrow and bounded the fifty or so paces into the tree line.

  It had gone home.

  “It’s disgusting!” Finnis whispered.

  One of the Brothers made the sign of the Plough, and the others hastily copied him.

  “It hums!” Gilbert croaked.

  And indeed the forest did hum. Not loudly, and not even with a discernible tune—not at this distance—but all could feel fragments of melody vibrating through their flesh.

  “Its name,” Moryson abruptly said, blinking, “is Minstrelsea.”

  The horse lifted her tired head and whickered, her ears flickering forward.

  “I don’t give an Artor’s curse what its name is!” Gilbert cried, too scared to wonder how Moryson knew its name. “Back! Back before it traps us! Moryson, turn the horse about. We’ll camp in the hollow behind this rise, out of sight of this demon-spawned aberration.”

  That night, Gilbert summoned Artor for his band. He had not done so previously, preferring to relay Artor’s words second-hand, but he knew that after the horror of the forest they would need the comforting presence of Artor Himself. And it would impress on the men Gilbert’s own place at Artor’s side.

  No wonder, he thought, as he knelt in prayer, his Brothers ranged in a semi-circle behind him, that Artor had warned him about Faraday. Was she responsible for this? Had she planted this…he tried to remember what Moryson had called it…this Minstrelsea? When had she been corrupted? Gilbert recalled the looks that had passed between Axis and Faraday across the campfires of the Axe-Wielders so long ago. Perhaps Axis had befouled her with his own corruption way back then.

  Well, no matter. Artor would see that Gilbert’s commitment would not waver. If Artor wanted this forest destroyed, then so be it.

  If Artor wanted Faraday destroyed, so be it.

  His head bowed, Gilbert humbly begged Artor’s presence. He reached out with his prayers, and summoned the god to his side.

  He felt it through his body first, the rhythmic thumping of the ploughshare through the earth. Then the laboured, maddened snorts of the fury-eyed red bulls reached his ears, and Gilbert lifted his head and flung his arms wide in exultation.

  Behind him, the Brothers cowered to the ground in terror. To one side Moryson fought to keep his fear under control, burying his face in his hands.

  As Artor urged his plough-team forward, Gilbert scrambled to his feet. “Artor!” he screamed.

  My good Gilbert, Artor’s voice whispered over the plains and He stepped out from behind His Plough, His body roped heavy with muscle and power. Have you seen what she has done? Do you understand now?

  “Oh yes!” Gilbert breathed. “It is foul…foul!”

  Foul indeed—and yet I can do little without your assistance, good Gilbert.

  “Anything, Artor, anything!”

  The world collapses about us, Gilbert. The other bitch threatens to open the Gates even further, but I can do nothing about her. She is too distant. Too powerful.

  The other bitch? Gilbert frowned, but did not interrupt his god.

  But it matters not. If we can stop this Faraday, then the whole scheme will unravel. Take but one note away, Gilbert, untune that string, and hark! What discord follows!

  “Yes, oh Blessed One.”

  Get her, Gilbert.

  “Yes,” Gilbert hissed ecstatically.

  Get Faraday. You must stop her, Gilbert. Or else I WILL DIE!

  Gilbert screamed as Artor’s voice ripped through his body, and behind him he could hear the other Brothers screaming.

  Then Artor’s voice dropped to a whisper. She moves more swiftly now, and the Enchanted Forest grows. Go to Arcen, Gilbert. Hurry. Stop her before she links these trees with the Shadowsward. If she does that…stop her!

  Gilbert, his head bowed, felt Artor step to his side and he trembled, but the god only rested a benevolent hand on Gilbert’s shoulder.

  Let me lend you power, Gilbert. Let me make you a more effective instrument.

  This time, when Gilbert screamed, even the distant trees heard it, and faltered momentarily in their melody.

  If you use it well, Gilbert, you will be able to stop her.

  “Yes,” Gilbert whispered, amazed he could talk at all. He dimly realised he had wet himself when Artor had flooded him with power. Beside him the god lifted his head and surveyed the trembling semicircle behind Gilbert.

  Serve him well.

  Almost as one, the Brothers screamed that they would.

  To one side Moryson descended into terror once more. Pray don’t touch me with your hand, Artor, he chanted over and over in his mind, because I don’t know what would happen. I don’t know how I will react!

  Do as he tells you.

  Yes!

  Destroy her.

  Yes!

  21

  THE SWORD

  Axis stood in what was left of the market hall of Jervois Landing and stared at the frozen corpse of Jorge, Earl of Avonsdale. His eyes, ice now, gazed into whatever eternity he was enduring, while his hands were still wrapped about the blade that had killed him…his own.

  From the Three Brothers Lakes, Axis had led his army cautiously—oh, so cautiously!—north for four weeks. It seemed that he had spent every waking moment, and many a sleeping one, expecting attack. Where were the Skraelings? Where had they gone? Whenever the wind lifted a drift of snow from a low hill Axis would jump, whenever a bird cried behind him he thought it was an Icarii scout warning of disaster.

  He had travelled slowly, not only because he expected attack, but because he did not want to lose contact with his supply lines. With an army this size, and with territory this useless, he would have to retreat if his supplies could no longer be inched north on mules—no carts could travel through these snowdrifts. Axis worried as much about food as he did about Skraeling attack.

  Gorgrael’s storms had rendered Aldeni a wasteland. Duke Roland’s province had once been one of the main food-producing regions of Tencendor; now it was little more than a bowl of snow and ice. If I ever chase back the Skraelings, Axis asked himself, unable to tear his eyes away from Jorge’s frozen agony, if I ever manage to best Gorgrael, will this land ever recover?

  “Axis?”

  Belial’s soft voice sounded behind him, and Axis turned.

  Belial stopped as he saw Jorge’s corpse, then raised his eyes to Axis’ face. “It is the same all over the town. Corpses, frozen in death, litter the buildings. Most have been torn apart. Not like…”

  “Not like Jorge, Belial? When did you ever know a Skraeling, or an IceWorm, or even a Star-damned SkraeBold, use a sword?”

  “Axis.” Belial placed a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps Jorge—”

  “No!” Axis’ voice was firm. “He was a courageous man, Belial, and he would not have died by his own accord. No.” His tone softened. “See the angle. That sword was driven in by another hand.”

  But whose hand? Did Jorge also have a traitor in his camp?

  Belial guided Axis away from Jorge’s corpse. “We will arrange a cre
mation for all who died here. Farewell them honourably into the AfterLife.”

  They walked slowly out of the building. Outside the air was frigid, but calm, as it had been for the entire time they’d been in Aldeni. Gorgrael was playing games with them.

  Axis felt a shiver of premonition. “I don’t like it here, Belial. Why didn’t the Skraelings stay to feed? These men have been butchered, but they have not been eaten. Not the usual Skraeling way. Someone controls them now, Belial, someone…”

  Suddenly he twisted away from Belial’s hand and punched his fist into the air. “Where are they?” he screamed.

  They burned and farewelled the dead that evening. For a time Belial had thought they would not find the fuel to ignite the frozen corpses. But, by chance, his men had discovered a cache of oil secreted deep in the cellars of the market hall, and the dead burned with a crispness that partially alleviated the horror of their passing.

  Belial and Magariz joined Axis in his tent later; the camp had been set up well outside the town, for none could bear to sleep amid its memories, and Axis could not escape his premonition that the buildings, largely unscathed, remained a trap.

  Axis sat on his bunk, head bowed, turning a sword over and over in his hands. It was Jorge’s sword; Axis had pulled it from the man’s belly as two men carried him to the funeral pyre.

  “A well-made sword, Axis,” Magariz said as he sat down.

  “Yes,” Axis said absently. “Well made indeed. Despite lingering for weeks in Jorge’s belly it has neither rusted nor stained. See? The remaining blood flakes off.” He raised his head. Belial stood before a small brazier that gave off a cheerful glow, if not much heat. “I thought I would keep it, Belial. Wear it, perhaps.”

  “Axis…” Belial began, but Axis dropped his eyes and continued.

  “I am not so attached to my own sword that I cannot replace it with one better, and this is better. It is an Escatorian blade, sharp and sure, and has a hilt crafted, if I’m not mistaken, in the sweat-riddled forges of Ysbadd. It is a good blade…and it yearns for revenge. I shall use it to stick whoever thrust it into Jorge’s gut.”