“Master,” she said with a heavy Etruscan accent.
Pye nodded and switched to Low Archaic. “If I were to ask you what weight of powder would throw a six-pound iron ball five hundred paces?” he asked.
She bowed, her unease visible even in moonlight. “Master, I can’t say.” She looked anxious. “Master, I would have to know many things: the length of the barrel, the quality of the poudre. And with a strange gonne …” She shrugged. “I would start with one half a bag, just to see how she throws.”
“Are they all this good?” Pye asked his former apprentice.
Edmund grinned at the tall woman. “No, Master. Sabina is especially talented. A wonderful cook, an excellent gonner. They are not all so good.”
Pye bowed to the woman. “You may come to my yard anytime, mademoiselle,” he said.
She flushed, and bowed her head in pleasure, and Pye walked along the ranks, making his odd, technical small talk with a number of the gonners; he embraced Duke and Tom.
Then he stopped, looking at the three falconets now dwarfed by the mighty cannons and the sakers and demi-cannon. “You brought them all the way?” he asked, amazed.
Duke couldn’t resist. “Master, last night we shot them on another world.”
“And before that, another world yet,” said Tom.
Master Pye shook his head. “Well,” he said. “Well, well.” He was grinning. “What artifice and the hand of man can do, we’ve done. Now you must take them into action.”
Edmund hesitated. “Me?” he asked.
Pye frowned. “Of course you,” he said. “You are now the master. I have fired one of these—the great cannon. Once. You have made all these men and women, and you have commanded them in battle. This is your art, your craft. Please take command.”
Edmund looked around, unable to speak. Finally he said, “But, Master Pye …”
But his master was already walking away, shouting orders about unloading the prepared cartridges.
Edmund shrugged. He glanced at Duke, who winked.
“Right,” Edmund said. “Now we need forty crews. Tom, get the weights of the gonnes and tell off the crews.”
“Saint Barbara!” muttered Tom. “Do we have forty gonne captains?” he asked.
Edmund nodded. “I’m sure we do,” he said. “And if we don’t now, we have until dawn to practice.”
Hawissa Swynford was wakened from her cloak between two warm mates by the off-going watch—Bill Stouffy.
“Fucking creepy,” Stouffy said. “Snowin’.” He shrugged. “Come on, Hawi. Yer turn. I wanna’ get some shut-eye.”
Swynford wanted more sleep more than anything in the world. She had been so warm.
She got up. They were in a shed—a furrier’s shed for storing furs—and the roof had somehow survived sorcery and dragon fire. She got her feet under her and groaned a fair amount, but she felt better than she had in days, and better still when Sarah Goody put a steaming cup of chicken soup in her hand.
She drank the hot soup, scalding her tongue, chewing on the chicken bits automatically. Her sword was ruined; she had a dagger …
Stouffy was already deep in the piles of furs and cloaks. “Arrers,” he said. “Bales o’ they. Stacked on the north side o’ the shed. Nighty-night.”
Swynford went out into the icy darkness, where the snow was now coming down steadily, and found the arrows, in neat bags with spacers, all stacked against the back wall under the overhang. She took a sack, opened the end, and withdrew one. It had the Royal Armoury mark on the head, over the broken circle of Master Pye.
She kissed it. And dropped the whole bag into her open quiver.
Then she buckled on her heavy belt and pulled her cloak over her kit and ducked into the snow.
Collingford was waiting for her, and they checked their sentries: half a dozen cold and tired men and women staring out at the snow. Then they went north along the edge of the town. There were still fires burning, and the snow was mostly ice melt here; terrible on the feet.
“Should be milice here,” she said. She moved carefully, and Collingford spanned his crossbow. It wasn’t a war bow, which he had across his back, but a light arbalest; the sort of thing a fine lady might use to shoot birds. Collingford liked it because he could carry it cocked and ready.
Swynford wished she had one. The darkness was wrong and the snow only made it worse. She moved carefully, her feet freezing in the icy water, the fires flickering like a vision of hell through the snow.
She saw a shadow of movement, and she froze and put a shaft on her bowstring, the horn nock gripping the waxed string. “Halt!” she called.
“Halt!” the shadow spat back.
There was a noise; a sound of steel scraping on rock.
“Advance and be recognized!” shouted Swynford.
The figure emerged from the snow like a conjuror’s trick: a tall man in good armour.
Swynford knew him immediately: Gareth Montjoy, the Count of the Borders. She sank to one knee.
He stepped forward, and there was a heavy dagger in his fist, and his face was utterly blank, and one eye was gone. He moved swiftly, but Collingford was faster, and he put his light shaft in the earl’s other eye. Then he stepped forward, his heavy forester’s cutlass in his hand, and in one fear-fueled swing, he beheaded the stumbling, blind thing and saw the worm emerge from dead earl’s neck.
Swynford was running on training alone; she drew the short mallet from her belt, the one she used for pounding stakes, and smashed the count’s neck repeatedly until the worm was worm paste.
Then she whimpered a little.
Then she hugged Collingford. “Thanks,” she said.
“Think nothing of it,” he said. “Fuck.”
“Fuck,” she agreed, and took the dead count’s beautiful arming sword. She started to walk away, trembling in every limb, but even in the grip of terror, she was a veteran; she went back to the messy corpse and took the belt and scabbard, too.
Collingford was already sounding the alarm on his horn.
Dawn was almost in the sky, to the emperor, a thousand feet in the icy air. He could see the first flush of colour away to the east, but there was an hour or more before it would reach the ground. The Odine were contained—the surprise had failed, if it had even been an attempt, and not the kick of a corpse—and his preparations were made.
It was all done.
Tomorrow? Ariosto asked.
Today, brother, Gabriel replied.
Whatever, Ariosto said. I will achieve my full growth today.
I thought you were bigger, Gabriel said.
Ariosto laughed.
They landed by the gate, and Jon Gang took Ariosto with Hamwise, and there were half a dozen fat Alban sheep waiting with fully justified terror, bleating their last.
Do you ever consider that in the universe of sheep, you are the ultimate villain? Gabriel asked.
No, Ariosto said. Should I?
Absolutely not, Gabriel said.
He dismounted, and walked wearily through the gate, waving at the sentries and the murmured “good nights” of his people.
His great red pavilion was set up just inside the gate. It was instantly warm; a pleasant night, and he walked into the pavilion to find every evidence that there had been a fine party. Tom Lachlan was asleep, his head down on the table, snoring, with Sukey sprawled in the next chair; Anne Woodstock lay with her head in Toby’s lap on the carpet; and Michael lay asleep with Kaitlin’s head on his shoulder and their daughter between them. Master Nicodemus was asleep; Mortirmir was asleep with Tancreda by him, an untouched cup of wine in her hand; Francis Atcourt was stretched full length on the far side of the table from Toby; de Beause appeared awake at first, but he had fallen asleep in his armour.
Gabriel looked around at all of them, and his first thought of annoyance was replaced with a simple warmth. He wanted to cry. It was an absurd feeling.
And then Blanche was there. “I stayed awake,” she said softly. “I hope
d you would come back.”
“You are a wise maiden,” he said.
“There is, in fact, still oil in my lamp,” she said.
“Is that a double entendre?” he asked.
“Did you want me to help you with your armour?” she asked. “Or just walk off and leave you to your fate?”
And a few quiet moments later, he had a hand on her belly and was listening to his son or daughter move.
“You should sleep,” she said.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to sleep,” he said. “I want this cup taken from me. I want time to stop.”
She kissed him. “At least, if we cannot make time stand still,” she said, “we can make him run.”
He laughed. “I love you,” he said.
She laughed with sadness, because weeping would waste time.
Sunset. The long, pleasant sunset of the last world; a world cleared of predators by the Odine. Through the gate, Gabriel could just see snow falling from the open doors of his red pavilion. Today the emperor’s pavilion was almost empty, and he stood in the vast red space while Jon Gang and Hamwise and Woodstock put him in his newly polished golden armour. His officers came through and there was little talk—an embrace or a handshake, and not much more. Ser Michael came in and took a whetstone and sharpened his dagger.
Morgon Mortirmir came in and stood watching them. “I finished felling the weapons,” he said. “It’s done. All the casa. Most of the company. Really, all of them, but some of them wanted daggers as well as spears, and I’m not—”
“Morgon,” Gabriel said.
The young magister flushed.
“We’ve defeated the shadow, the will, and the rebel,” he said. “We’ll win.”
Mortirmir nodded. His hands were shaking.
Gabriel went and took them.
Mortirmir suddenly embraced his captain. “You are so close,” he murmured.
“I know,” Gabriel said.
“Don’t cast. You can never cast again. You must not …”
Gabriel’s smile was distinctly unsaintly. “We’ll see,” he said.
“I should touch up your … disguise,” Mortirmir said.
“Save it,” Gabriel said. “In a few minutes, I will cut it free.”
“You will burn like a torch,” Mortirmir said.
Gabriel nodded. “Yep,” he said.
In the end, he shook hands with his squire and his pages.
“Kneel, Anne,” he said. He knighted her, with Ser Michael standing close by, and Sauce just coming into the pavilion.
She couldn’t stop herself from crying, and she was mortified, which made the emperor smile.
Then he stepped out into the sunset of this world and knighted a dozen more young men and women.
Lucca appeared with a pile of messages; Ser Michael started through them and gave a cough.
“Tell me,” Gabriel said.
“Towbray has stormed the palace in Harndon,” he said. “Lady Mary was left as a surrogate for the queen. It appears he killed her.” He looked stunned. “My fucking father,” he spat. “Christ, I feel unclean.”
“Michael, do not, I pray, take this personally. Michael!” Gabriel snapped as if the younger man were still his squire.
His first squire stiffened.
“I need you. Here. In command. Forget your father. He is nothing. This is the battle of our time.” Gabriel waved at the gate. “Fetch me Bad Tom, please.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Michael said. He went out to the tent, his face set.
“Lucca,” Gabriel said. “I need a favour.”
“Anything, my lord.”
“Go to Harndon and kill the Earl of Towbray. Don’t even make it look like an accident. And Lucca, if he ever asks you, tell Michael that I ordered it.” Gabriel smiled.
“Now, or after the battle?” Lucca asked.
“After will be fine, but do it,” Gabriel said.
“Ser Maria, my lord,” said Ser Anne Woodstock.
Gabriel spent a minute on his gauntlets, and then looked at his gold bascinet and sniffed the lining, which was very clean.
Anne showed him his sword. He touched it, making sure that it was sharp at the tip and dull where he liked to grab it when he was half-swording. He noted that it now bore a small Gothic letter M under Master Pye’s maker’s mark.
“Highness,” Ser Maria said, and made a full reverence. “Master Brown and Master Lucca and I have been made an offer.”
Master Brown, as unremarkable as ever, bowed. “My lord,” he said. “The salamanders have invited us to their home.”
Gabriel nodded. “Remarkable,” he said.
“I think so,” said Ser Maria.
“I have given Master Lucca a little task to accomplish first,” the emperor said with his most annoying smile. “I think both of you might accompany him. But then, yes, I think you should go with my writ and seal. Master Julius?”
“I’m writing,” he said. “Ambassador?”
“Perfect,” Gabriel said as Tom Lachlan entered and kissed Blanche. “Tar’s tits, Gabriel. You look like a fewkin’ angel.” Behind Tom, Sukey came in with a tablet in her hand, and she and Blanche kissed and then began to copy.
“That’s me,” Gabriel said. “Kneel, Ser Thomas. Sukey? Come. Kneel.”
Thomas Lachlan did not kneel easily; it took an effort of will, but he managed it, his great blue-black armoured knee crashing down. Sukey knelt with bony grace at his side.
Gabriel took his great sword of war, which was naked on the table. “Thomas Lachlan, I hereby vest you with the title of Earl of the North Wall, and the lands adjoining that wall and formerly owned by the Orleys, as well as the Imperial Barony of Birdeswald. And Sukey, I vest you in your own right as Imperial Count of Osawa. I recommend that you two get married and solidify all this feudal magnificence before I change my mind.” He grinned, and Sukey rose and gave him an almost unsisterly kiss, and then so did Bad Tom.
“Couldn’t that ha’e waited?” Tom asked.
“No,” Gabriel said. “I will leave my house in order, and my debts paid.” He blew a kiss to Blanche, who made herself smile.
They walked out into the fading sunlight of an alien world.
“What the hell did he mean by that?” Tom asked.
Blanche finally burst into tears.
Full dawn. To the west, heavy black clouds, like thunderheads, and behind them a leaden sky. To the east, a bright sunrise, and the red ball of the sun sitting on the Green Hills.
The emperor stood on the Albin Ridge with the Earl of Westwall and his officers. All the ground from the distant slopes of the Kanata ridge to the ruins of the Ambles Inn and the shattered steeple of Saint Mary’s was full of the enemy—a dense carpet of monsters.
The first attacks had been made at dawn, against the garrison of Livingston Manor. The cave trolls had discovered that Ser Ranald and the royal guard had moved in during the night, and they had the direct support of the entire choir of magistery up the hill behind them five hundred paces.
As the sun rose, and Gabriel flew slowly and carefully at very low altitudes along the line of the Lily Burn to the Cohocton and around to Ser Gavin’s position, a massive sorcerous assault shattered the outwalls of Albinkirk and discovered a nest of workings and a labyrinth of pre-dug defensive trenches behind the walls, and legions of bogglins flung themselves into the assault. Prince Tancred of Occitan and the new Captain of Albinkirk stood with almost a thousand knights and most of the militia who’d survived the day before and stopped the bogglins in the breach.
In the west, the man who’d once been Ota Qwan and more lately been Kevin Orley led his own horde over the smoking ruins of Hawks Head and Kentmere and across the fields, pushing back a skirmish line of rangers and militia archers and then advancing into the woods that lined all seven miles of the Lily Burn’s length. Orley and his master expected the Lily Burn to be unoccupied or thinly defended.
As the sun rose over the Green Hills, Orley’s first attack on
the Lily Burn woods was stopped dead by Mogon. The fighting spread from the center, just south of the Flow, but as the enemy spread, they found ambush after ambush, and the icy waters were in flood and difficult to cross.
But Ash and his lieutenants had learned a great deal about war in the real. And so a second captain led all the schiltrons of irks, and tlachs of daemons west, into the low hills around Lady Helewise’s manor house, clever enough to know that their enemies coming through the gate would be trapped between the two pincers and destroyed, or neutralized.
But all of those were merely pinning attacks. None was Ash’s great effort.
Ash unleashed that as the sun rose.
Gabriel pointed out over the fields of Woodhull. “He’ll attack right here,” he said. “Right down between the ridge and Penrith, and break our army into two pieces.”
Gavin was smiling, and so were the rest of the men and women on the hilltop.
“He’ll attack in the real to draw us out,” Gabriel continued. “And then, when we contain his attack, he’ll turn to the aethereal.” He smiled like a beatific saint.
“And we will stop him,” said the Patriarch.
“Holiness, we will more than stop him. We will leave him no choice but to come at us in person. On our ground, in a place of our choosing, on a day of our choosing.” Gabriel smiled his most damning superior smile.
The Patriarch narrowed his eyes. “How are you so sure?” he asked.
Gabriel laughed. “I’m not. I’m telling you what I’d like to happen.” He shrugged. “But the pinning attacks are happening, and we’re in it. And there …” He smiled again. “There they are.”
Out in the fields south of Woodhull, there came a seeping stain of dark colours, tinged with the rose pink of the snowy dawn.
Gabriel pointed with his baton and continued his commentary. “Front is about a mile wide,” he said. “Three thousand creature front. Fifty deep? A hundred?” He nodded, and behind him, Anne Bateman made a note and accepted a message from a black-and-white bird. By now she knew her friend Ser Gerald was dead; everyone knew that Harndon was in the hands of the traitor. But the messengers were still flying; the garrisons were all still linked.