The Wretched of Muirwood (31 page)

* * *

The earth shook. Lia opened her eyes, realizing it was day. She lay against the inner wall of the burnt-out tree, her cheek itching with the sooty ruff of wood. Her ankle throbbed as she moved. A drumming sound filled the air, the charge of horses and jangle of arms. The hooves caused a murmur like thunder. Lia straightened, eyes filling with tears. She had fallen asleep! The vigil was not complete!

Lia stood awkwardly, her legs trembling. Her ankle was sore, but it supported her. How had it happened? How had she fallen asleep? Her mind was scattered with fragments, with memories all tangled and jostled together. Emerging from the shell of the tree, she stared at the fields near Winterrowd and watched as three walls of mounted knights surged across the clods of earth and grass at the tiny army led by Garen Demont. There were at least five rows of black-clad knights in each wall, lances stark against the dawn sun, charging against Demont’s men from every corner. Every one of Demont’s men were dismounted. She saw their horses tethered beyond their reach.

No!
she wanted to scream. The knights charged, closing the gap, as Demont’s men waited for them to come. They were arranged in four lines, a square, each man facing outward, shoulder to shoulder with their swords drawn. The gap in the middle showed no reserves. Thunder churned the air, the thunder of warhorses. Lia bit her lip, watching helplessly at the slaughter about to happen. The slaughter Maderos had predicted.

Let him live
, she thought silently.
Please, let him live! I am not too late!

Thinking was not enough. She needed to act. To
do
something to aid him. The flutter and color of a dozen battle flags caught her eye, nearer to her than the charging knights. The flags were large and sweeping, fixed on poles and fluttering in the air like huge forked tongues to rally the king’s soldiers. They were held by mounted soldiers on a solitary hill near the wooded glen where she was hidden. It was near enough that she could see the slope of the helms, the detail on their armor, and hear the nickering of impatient steeds. One battle flag in particular caught her eye. It was red and gold, tattered, and charred black in places. Some fleeting memory darted through her thoughts like watery silver, something she had heard back at Muirwood. That the king taunted his enemies by flashing the banners of his defeated foes, a deliberate design to crush the will of his enemies, to weaken their resolve to fight, to seed their minds with doubts.

What was it about the broken red flag that seemed so familiar? Suspended from a long pole mounted on a giant spear, it hung vertically, split into two halves partway across and pointed. A symbol was in the center of the flag – a circle with two slash marks through it. At each point above, below, and to the sides, words had been sewn with gold thread against the red. Not just any words. The script was strange and elliptical and hauntingly familiar.

Reaching into her pouch, Lia withdrew the Cruciger orb and the thought struck her. The text on the flag was Pry-rian. The orb spoke to her in Pry-rian. It was the battle flag of the kingdom of Pry-Ree that caught her eye.

Emotions she did not understand engulfed her. She cried and choked at the same time, not certain which she should be doing but not able to help either. The advancing horses were closing the gap quickly, building speed. Lances glittered in the dawn. There it was, in all its blaze and glory – the battle flag of Pry-Ree.
Her
flag. The flag of her forefathers – her Family. The feelings were so strong, she could hardly breathe.

He is delivered into your hands.

Part of her mind opened again, just as it had in the Bearden Muir. Just as Almaguer and his men had been delivered into her hands, she realized that the king’s army was delivered up as well. Their arrival at Winterrowd was neither too soon nor too late. No, the Medium had allowed them to arrive deliberately. From down in the field, she could sense Demont’s thoughts, firm and resolute. He did not doubt. He did not fear. He led a small company of raw, young mastons with courage and belief, knowing that the Medium would save them and he had prepared his lines to defend against the rush of knights on every side. Even as death approached on churning hooves, Demont believed he could win and he chose action. The Medium had brought her to save them.

He is delivered into your hands.

If the king’s thoughts fed his army, if his will was imposed on them, then what would happen should he fall? Lia looked down at the orb in her hand.
Where is the king?

The orb began to whir until the spindles pointed away from the charging horsemen and to the small hill and the tight ring of soldiers holding the battle flags. The one in the center wore a crown over his helmet, but he was not the king. He was a decoy. She knew that in her bones.

He is delivered into your hands.

Then she understood and gasped. The king held aloft the pole with the Pry-rian flag.
Her
flag. He could not have known that the one he had chosen was part of her ancestry. She had barely realized it herself days ago. It amazed her. If the king fell, it would change everything. It would alter the future of the kingdom, perhaps even ending the maston-killings. The Medium demanded action from her or Demont’s army would fail. She knew what to do.

Reaching down, she grabbed the ash bow that belonged to Jon Hunter. Confidence surged in her veins. She retrieved a single arrow from the quiver. She remembered all the steps that Jon taught her. How to hold it firmly. How to load it so that the odd-colored feather was on top. Gripping the taut bowstring with the tips of her fingers, she pulled and drew it back to the corner of her mouth. There was no aiming, not at that distance. She had never launched an arrow that far before or hit anything so distant with accuracy. Yet confidence whispered in her mind that the Medium would not let her miss. She never doubted it.

The charging horsemen were almost on Demont’s men. A murmuring groan rose up from the field. A collective gasp before the clash.

He is delivered into your hands or Demont’s army will fall.

The bowstring twanged and the arrow flew. Suddenly the king jerked straight, the arrow catching him in a chink of armor in his neck, then he toppled off the horse. The battle flag of Pry-Ree dropped from the dead man’s fingers, its end stabbing into the hilltop and the wind caught the banner and unfurled it. The power of the Medium surged from Lia into the battle flag, and then spilled throughout the field below, gushing from her like a Leering stone, spreading a web of safety with the breeze.

Spears appeared amidst Demont’s soldiers. As the ends were jammed into the ground, the sharp heads lifted, greeting the horsemen with a row of teeth. The stampede of hooves could not stop in time. A razor edge of spear tips awaited them – a crush of men and beasts and steel. Had the spears been there all along, hidden in the grass?

She watched the horses crunch against the teeth of steel until she could bear no longer the sight of it, or endure the flood of power that was burning her alive. The weight of the Medium crushed her again and she blacked out.

* * *

“It is the mind that makes the body rich. As the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so does honor peer in the meanest habit.
A maston is as unhappy or as happy as he has convinced himself he is.
”

- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

* * *

Lia awoke to the prodding of a staff into the small of her back. “Wake up. Wake up, sister. It is over and I am finished scriving. You missed the rest. Can you hear me? Eh? Wake up!”

It was Maderos. Lia sat up slowly, her head a fog of thoughts. Drained – she was completely empty inside. Opening her eyes, she looked over at him, seated on the ground near her on the hillside next to the battlefield. Maderos brushed the crinkled shavings of aurichalcum from the tome on his lap. He looked down at the words again, running his fingers over the etchings, as if savoring some delicious dish. When he saw he had her attention, he spoke softly, clearly.

“The battle of Winterrowd did not last past the morning, and then it was over. The field next to the village was littered with the slaughter. Many from the defeated army of the king escaped into the Bearden Muir, rather than be captured or ransomed, but many were devoured by the moors instead of men. In tales to come, many will ascribe the glory of victory to Garen Demont and to the peculiar arrangement of his soldiers and tactics. How they shied horses and used rings of spears to protect each other. Others will say it was because Demont only allowed mastons to serve him, that they were worthy to call upon the Medium to deliver them from the king’s wrath. These are near to the truth. The husk but not the kernel. The battle of Winterrowd was won by a wretched from Muirwood Abbey. None of the witnesses of the battle ever knew about her or what she did that day, how she used the Medium to defy the army of a king. No one but I alone and those who read this record. The world may never know the secret. But I, Maderos, know the secret just as I know the wretched. I will not reveal her name.”

Then he closed the tome and set it back in the sheepskin with the scriving tools, folded the sheepskin, and lifted the heavy tome back into his pack. Lia watched, a little jealous still of his ability to read. She wanted to read the other things he had written. She eyed the tome with hunger and then the thought slammed against her like a blacksmith’s hammer.

“How many of Demont’s men fell in the battle?” she asked him.

“How many
pethets?
Perhaps they all deserved to die. But you will learn soon enough, little sister.” He slowly stood, resting his arms on the twisted staff he had poked her with.

“The king’s army - it was defeated then?”

Maderos nodded, then waved his staff at the field. “It was a slaughter, just as I told you. Do not suppose that Demont’s men did not suffer for their victory. There is not a man among them who is not injured, bleeding, or weary. Each fought bravely. But they do not know
why
they won.” His eyes narrowed pointedly. “They would not believe you, even if you told them.”

“You sound like the Aldermaston,” Lia said grudgingly.

He smirked. “Perhaps that is so. Perhaps I have lingered near Muirwood too long now. I knew when I saw you, sister. The Medium made it clear to me that you would help overthrow the kingdom. It is in your blood, I think. Go find the
pethet
, child. Go down amidst the corpses.”

“Is he dead?” She didn’t want Maderos to leave her alone. Her stomach turned into ice. She wanted him to stay and answer questions, to calm her sudden panic. But she recognized he would never reveal more than he should.

“Use the orb. He is down there. Then you must return to Muirwood. The Aldermaston expects you. There, I have said it. The Aldermaston expects you. That should be enough.”

Lia rose, sick with worry, and brushed dirt from her skirt, though it was still filthy. She saw soldiers wandering through the mist and fields below. It was littered with the dead.

* * *

Find Colvin.

Lia focused on the orb and her thoughts of him and not on the carnage of the battlefield or her throbbing ankle. She tried calming her raging heart and brushed unwilling tears from her eyes. Wagons from the village lumbered amidst the scene, and bodies were stacked and brought to the center of the field. It was strange seeing little children milling about, gazing at the corpses, unafraid. The morning haze burned away slowly, leaving wisps of smoke and fog about the hinterlands.

The smell in the air – there was no way to describe the smell of death. She had been raised in an Abbey kitchen and knew her work by the way things smelled. The smell of loaves finished baking. The smell of cinders and ash as she swept out the fireplaces. Of fragrant spices and pungent aromas mixed, matched, baked, and burned. The stench of the field was overpowering. She gagged, even after she covered her mouth with her hand.

The spindle on the orb led her into the thickest part of the battlefield. New writing appeared on it. Lia stopped, looked ahead, searching the faces of the dead men, and then saw Colvin approaching through the haze. He walked ponderously, as if he dragged a weight of stones behind him. His face was black with smoke and scabs, his tunic a mess of stains, but his smile when he saw her was radiant. It was the sunrise after an endless night. As he drew near, she saw the gleaming collar, the jeweled necklace dangling from his neck and thumping against the mail of his hauberk.

After tugging off his blood-stained gloves, he stuffed them into his belt. His fingers were caked with dirt. But his smile – it was thrilling to see. She wanted to touch him, to know he was real, but shyness forbade her. Relief engulfed her and she bit her tongue to keep from sobbing.

“Have you heard the news, Lia?” he asked her, his smile beaming.

“What is it?” she said, thrilled to see him alive. Her heart felt like bursting.

He shook his head, as if it were too delicious to speak. “The old king is dead. His son and heir was captured on the field. They are already calling him the young king. He is in Demont’s tent right now. I just came from there myself. Demont is declared Lord Protector of the realm.” One of his hands strayed up, fondling the collar and its jeweled symbol. “Lia, I was just made a knight-maston. Just now, by the young king’s hand. A knight-maston of the order of Winterrowd. The earldom of my father will be granted in a ceremony soon. Lia – I never believed…I never hoped…it feels like a dream. That I will awaken and it is dawn and the battle has not happened yet. Is it…is it real?”