The advisor looked at it and then rubbed his temples, not wanting to think about what it meant. The entire southern third of the kingdom had in unison stopped paying its dues. “Yes, you’re right in bringing this to my notice. I’ll inform the king straight away. We’ll be managing the collection for every place on this list until we notify you otherwise.”
The clerk bowed, said, “Thank you, sir,” and left the advisor’s chamber, glad to have been relieved of the responsibility. He suspected the absent funds might be a sign of anarchy or rebellion in the south and he didn’t want to send any of his men into such potentially hazardous situations.
The advisor suspected the same. So, putting on his flowing, scarlet robes, he sought audience with the king. In that meeting he counseled the prudence of a quick display of strength.
That was why a small army was on its way south. Slow formations of fifty each rode under four commanders, bearing the king’s scarlet standard, a wolf’s head. They were invulnerable soldiers in ornate, plated suits of armor, sitting high on barded horses. They were the King’s Men, trained to be incomparable warriors, equipped by the depth of the royal treasury and sworn to ruthless loyalty.
Cornwall, a respected veteran of the order, was one of the regiment’s heads. When they came to a halt, he lifted his visor and called out, “Gladstock! Channing! Cumberland! Here’s the part! Let’s show these southern counties sovereign law does not abide rebellion!” The three men he’d named and their units saluted and split off in separate, direct routes across the countryside. It would take weeks to reach their destinations.
Cornwall then shouted at the rest, “And we’re for Antioch! Time to teach those beaners not to pay their taxes, eh brothers! What, what!” His company answered with shouts of hoo-rah and damn beaners as they resumed their horse-march south.
Harold lifted his own visor and cantered up to Cornwall’s side. “Don’t you mean teach them to pay their taxes, sir?”
Cornwall raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re a King’s Man, Harold. Don’t pick at someone’s grammar if you’ve understood them.”
Harold laughed. “Do you really believe there’s rebellion in Antioch? My gran-gran always said they wouldn’t throw a stone. Her great grandfather drove the squatters from the coffee fields, you know.”
“Is that so? A lot can change in a hundred years.”
“Do you think highwaymen could be robbing the couriers?”
“Across every route from the coast to the lee? And at the same time? That’s a stretch. No, I think they’re either part of a rebellion or more likely they’re being molested by one. We’ve some sorting out to do.”
“I think it’s going to scare the living daylights out of them when we arrive, sir, whether or not they’ve done anything wrong!” That got a chuckle out of Cornwall. Harold smiled and chatted away. “What about these white wizards eh? I’ve heard they can suck an evil ghost out of your face if you’re haunted. That’s exciting, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to meeting one of them!”
Cornwall laughed. “You’ve a good nature, Harold. That’ll make it a short trip. What other stories does your gran-gran have about the south?”
“Oh, well, let’s see… There’s a little man named Gunther who steals your shoes if you leave them out at night. The tale is that he’s very small, but his feet are so big that he can’t get any to fit, so he tries on every pair that he can find.”
Cornwall chuckled again. “I’ve a mind to see how this Gunther fellow likes the feel of a sound, king’s-issue boot then… on his backside, what!” He slapped his thigh - clank - and bellowed.
Harold laughed with him. “Hoo-rah, sir.”
***
Michael’s only usual company, Andalynn, was off getting married. So, assuming she wouldn’t be coming in to train at all that day, he’d spent most of it sitting on a mat, rereading his library between the lights of the open door and the fire.
He closed his book, feeling restless, like he’d forgotten something critical. Then he noticed a faint sound coming from outside - clang, clang, clang, clang… one of the signal bells.
Afraid of how long that had been going on, he ran out into the yard, listening for the sound’s character and direction. It came from the north, from the wall. Michael rang out with the church bell to let them know he was on his way. Then he sprinted toward the stable to hitch Ares and Rascal to the incinerator.
***
Biggs and Andalynn’s marriage was a small ceremony with everyone in humble brown and white. She wore pants and an acolyte’s tabard. Betheford conducted the affair from his common room’s steps, a look of narrowed disapproval on his face. Fergus and Margot were among the witnesses, as was Sarah, who’d cut her hair shorter to look more like Andalynn’s.
It could have been romantic that bells started ringing after they took their vows, had the bride and groom not grabbed their guns and run out of the inn.
Biggs said as they went, “That’s Tinkerbell for sure!”
***
Captain leaned and yawned up on the scaffold. He would have preferred to attend the wedding but everyone who wasn’t on the wall that day had agreed that the wall couldn’t afford a day off. The masons were restless below.
“Fwah, pass down the pipe!”
“At least! There’s a good sailor.”
“We’ll celebrate here!”
Captain laughed at them from above. “Fwah, yourselves! We’d get so boogered, the bauran’d get us and we wouldn’t even care!” They traded some good natured cursing and Captain shook his head, smiling. Then he gave the countryside a responsible scan. He paused. Was that movement on the road? He picked up his rifle with a sudden chill.
Captain aimed at the clump of trees where he’d seen it. He didn’t want to sound the alarm without being absolutely sure he was right, and he desperately hoped he was wrong. There’d still been nothing from the north.
Then Harold stumbled into view, that time magnified in the rifle’s scope and crosshairs. Teetering like a drunk in his armor, he fell to his knees and crawled.
Captain worked into a shout, “Go… Go home! I mean, go to the church, lads! Get to the church!” He started yanking the bell’s chord - Clang, Clang, Clang, Clang… The masons looked up at him, at each other and then gathered at the edge of the wall to see what they could see.
After a bit, one of them called up, “Shouldn’t you be shooting him like a turkey?” Captain cast a look of shock down over the edge and kept ringing. He didn’t stop until he heard Michael’s response - Ka-kang, kang! Ka-kang, kang!
Ditch got there before anyone else and shouted at the masons. “Come on, guys! What’re you waitin’ for? Let’s go! Let’s go!” Any bell meant get off the street. They conceded to follow him away from there. Before they left, Ditch called up, “You alright, Cap?”
Captain didn’t show his face when he shouted back. “I… I am! I’ve got it!” He kept his aim on Harold but didn’t touch the trigger. He stayed that way until Andalynn and Biggs arrived, shaking the scaffold with their ascent.
Biggs said, “What’s go’n on, Cap?” took a knee on the platform and brought his own rifle to bear.
Captain said, “Don’t shoot him! I don’t think he’s turned.”
Andalynn climbed up behind them and found the distant target with her naked eye. “What evidence do you have of that?”
Captain turned for their opinions. “He didn’t come to the bell. He stayed following the road.” They nodded and kept watch with him, helpless to do anything else. Minutes later, an ear-shattering racket of hooves and banded wheels swelled up from the cobblestones.
To make it mobile, they’d built the incinerator out of a wagon, bolting black metal into the wood. Pipes and tubing coiled over its welded mass and a glowing heat raged behind its grate. That and hauling it had a sweat rolling down the white and red stallions’ hides. Michael was deaf in the driver’s seat, holding the reins and a whip.
Biggs, Andalynn and Captain pointed and sho
uted from the scaffold.
“Over that a’ way!”
“He is from the north, Michael!”
“Go! He’s still alive!”
Michael couldn’t hear anything they said but nodded and drove the incinerator in the direction of their pointing, rumbling to a stop where a King’s Man was on his hands and knees. Michael leapt down, glaring at the scarlet heraldry. It was they who’d driven the fellowship from the coffee fields so long ago, slaying Michael’s ancestors out of blind loyalty to a greedy master.
Biggs clapped Captain on the back. “Reckon you just saved taxman’s life.”
Captain smiled. “I’ve kept in mind how you lot spared Michael because of the way he moved. So, I’ll wait until I see the ink in their eyes.” He tapped himself on the nose. “I’d hate to catch a bullet just for being three sheets to the wind, myself.”
Andalynn said, “How are the two of you so certain that is a tax collector?”
Biggs shared Captain’s smile and said, “Just guessin.”
Andalynn held out a hand for her husband’s rifle. “May I see?” Biggs passed it up. Shouldering the stock, she found Michael standing over Harold in the scope. “He is not removing his gauntlets.”
Harold was almost paralyzed, coughing and muttering at Michael’s feet. “There’s… sickness… in… in the woods… my brothers… my brothers… are sick…”
Unmoved, Michael thought, you and your brothers are damned. He knelt and lifted the visor on Harold’s helm. There was only a man under the armor, pale and black-haired like everyone else. Your loyalty makes you no better than a butcher’s tool, doesn’t it, King’s Man? How dare you come here, begging me for hospital? Would you have listened to cries for mercy? This is retribution.
Harold said, “Don’t… don’t go… into… the woods. It’s… dangerous…”
Michael frowned. The man wasn’t begging for hospital. He was using his dying breaths as a warning. It was an ignorant, disastrous gesture, of course, having accomplished little more than carrying the plague, but in response to it, Michael was disarmed. He couldn’t help but unbuckle his gauntlet and question his own convictions.
Captain was convinced the north-man was alive and that Michael was about to throw him into the incinerator. Michael was going to pull the lever on a living person and there was going to be screaming mixed with the sound of the blast nozzles. Unable to watch, he gave his rifle to Biggs and sat turned away with his hands on his head.
Biggs spoke from the aim. “See, there he goes, Cap. Told you Michael’s alright. Taxman’s gon’ be fine.” Captain’s expression lifted and he smiled.
The three sailors watched, passing two rifles around, as Michael waited for Harold to wake. The distant pair had a short conversation and then both climbed into the incinerator’s seat. When they reached the scaffold on that deafening machine, Harold’s face was bloodless and full of dread.
Michael motioned at his own ears and shouted up, “Don’t bother! I can’t hear a word! Find Marabbas! Send him to me!” The sailors nodded that they understood. Michael cracked the whip, called, “Heya!” and rumbled away.
***
It was Naila’s first night back among the greer in months. She’d been away on her own to give birth and to nurse and had returned with two healthy pups old enough for the pride. When she discovered what it was they were hunting that night, she spoke out of curiosity. “Apoc says it’s wrong to hunt men. It makes the church hunt us.”
There wasn’t any need to talk about it, but Diana humored Naila in whispers as they padded through the brush. “No. It’s good now. Apoc wants us to. The church wants us to.”
The greer slunk through the forest in the moonlight, following a mingled scent of death and fungus toward a scattered group of King’s Men - bauran by then - that struggled in their new bodies and suits of armor, falling over themselves and the terrain. The greer quietly took positions around them.
Naila said, “I’ve never eaten man before. What does it taste?”
Diana said, “The taste is bad. Then you like it.” Her breathing deepened on the scent and her lips curled up over the canines. Though it wouldn’t be the first time she’d eat human flesh, it was the first time she’d do it with permission. She coiled up with the same focused intensity Marabbas had for the smokehouse. She said, “I like this new way.” The others agreed.
“We hunt the dead men.”
“They don’t run from us or cry.”
“No one misses them.”
They crouched and waited for the signal to attack, that being the first of them to rush in. One of them did and then all sailed through the leaves. They tackled their prey, gripping with talons, biting down with gaping rows of fangs and raking with powerful legs. They were shadows falling on shadows in the dark.
An angry hissing and screeching rose from the fray as their natural weapons failed against the plate armor. The bauran flailed and swatted at the greer’s dancing light; riin was arcing everywhere.
Naila leapt away from hers, discouraged. “It hurts! The clothes are hard!”
Another bit down as savagely as she could, trying to get through. A painful - crack - and blood flooded her mouth from broken teeth. She howled, “Aaowrr! My teeth are dookussed! Run away!”
But, Diana already knew how to get around a suit of metal. She roared, “No! Twist their hats! Like this!” In a flash she was on Cornwall’s back with her talons in his visor’s eye-holes. She wrenched and jerked ferociously until his helm faced backward. Cornwall collapsed as his ink lost pressure. Diana called out to the others, “Break them in the middle! Like rock-fish!”
The greer crept back to twist and snap the spines inside the armor. They left nothing to move. In the peace after the kill, they discovered leather fastenings and straps they could cut with their claws to get through. The armor held no mystery for them after that.
And, with the baurans’ flesh exposed, they fed. It was their place to feed before bringing kills to the pride’s tree. They broke open rib cages with the raw power in their hands. Michael had asked through Marabbas that they start with the lungs. None of them had a problem with that.
Their return to the pride drew the elderly and the young in out of the forest. They gathered around, reluctantly pawing and sniffing at the offering of corpses. Barabbas took to it right away. His mother had raised him on such. His brother, however, was hesitant and had to be convinced to try it.
Marabbas avoided raw meat anyway so he stayed up on his branch, lay back and listened, waiting for a song. While the others ate, the hunters sat in a circle and started a sort of rhythmic humming and howling chant. They kept a slow pace, reminiscent of the stalking calm before the chase, and waited for one of them to stand. She who stood would sing alone.
Younger greer preferred the song’s beginning because it was always the same and put less pressure on the soloist. The first to stand was a frightened, three-year-old killer:
“The hunt is breath and blood.”
After her, the rest came together in chorus:
“The hunt is good.”
“The kill is good.”
They gave the song time to develop, waiting for another to stand and sing over the drone of the chant. It was Naila then. She sang the name of what they’d hunted, but in an unusual way:
“Apoc says to hunt the men.”
Despite having mentioned Apoc in a line reserved for the hunted, she’d been on time. It made the others smile at her wit. The pride patted her pups and pointed out their mother’s skill. The greer came in together:
“We hunt the men.”
“The kill is good.”
The next part of their song was performed as statement and response, describing what had happened. It was considered to be the most challenging and exciting part and had an element of competition to it. Diana stood up right away, to ensure her place, and on the timing growled:
“The clothes are made of stone!”
There were nods. Pieces of the armor wer
e being passed around. A sad, broken-toothed hunter stood up to volunteer a response:
“They break our teeth…”
And then Diana roared triumphantly:
“We break the clothes!”
Lips curled back in fanged smiles. Donkey-calls blurted out around the tree. Barabbas and his brother stopped eating and flared their eyes at each other. Diana had impressed! No one was likely to stand after that, unless she wanted to get hissed.
The chorus came in:
“The hunt is good!”
“The kill is good!”
They let the chant drone until it was clear no one else would stand. Then, one after the next, they gave credit for their success. Diana made the hunt was said again and again, woven into the chant until it became the last chorus:
“Diana made the hunt.”
“The hunt is good.”
“The kill is good.”
They were so happy with their song that the last of it broke up into braying laughter before they finished.
25 Burying Saints
Andalynn and Margot were gossiping in the kitchen and packing picnic baskets with leftover fried chicken and jars of pickled apples. It was convenient for Michael that his acolyte lived at the Cauldron. She always brought plenty of good food when she came to practice.
Andalynn said, “Faith comes to see him almost every day, and brings a pie.” She had that small, self-satisfied smile that comes from understanding someone else’s motives.
Margot clucked and shimmied. “Sounds to me like she’s courting him!”
“Is that how it is done, with pie?”
“Well, you’ve got to let the great bollgres know somehow, don’t you? But, I knew better than to bake a pie for Fergus.”