“What have we here?” said the red-haired man. “Thegns and knights, lairds and retainers, all standing about, tittering their tongues, clutching their pale hands in knots. Well, I see fools and idiots, all of you. Waiting and mumbling and making plans that will never come to fruit.” He very nearly snarled what he said next. “Look on this.”
His companions started upending the sacks. In the middle of the room, immediately in front of the throne, the sacks were emptied and a pile formed. It was heads. At first Samakarantha thought it was a mix of humans and dogs… or wolves perhaps? But when he looked more carefully he saw that the bestial faces were something else again. They were the creatures that the northerners called variously boggarts or bogles or bugbears. In the south, the creatures were uncommon, and the name used was cynocephalus. This was the word that he said aloud, quietly and mostly intended for the benefit of his own musing.
There were a few hushed breaths, one or two offended huffs and shock, muffled little cries. Otherwise, no one else in the chamber said a word. The big man turned on Samakarantha.
“Ah, so someone sees what is before them and names it. Is the only man here a man from faraway and over the seas? Is a wanderer and a vagrant the only man willing to put a name to the dread beasties before you? Where is the courage of the Court of the Heather Throne? Where are the cries of, Boggart! Boggart! Boggart! When did our ancestral bravery turn to a sour and water-thin meekness.” He waved thick, veiny hand at the pile of heads. Blood was seeping into the rug now, slowly, stickily. “Look on this. Look! I and my outriders surprised this lot, not more than a day’s ride from the gates. Their scouting gangs are that close now. And behind them, over the hills, there are ranks upon ranks of these beast-things, and other uncanny monsters and night-tainted humanfolk aside. Where are the arms that need to be arrayed? Where are the knights riding out, with lance at the stirrup and good, strong shield in hand? What do you plan here? Do you plan to cower behind walls? Die like miserable rats, starving in a miserable hole?”
Samakarantha, meantime, had stepped closer to the blood-soaked pile and was examining the heap of decapitated heads. He noted that many of the human faces–which he had at first taken for being greyish and ashen from being drained of their blood–might actually have had a leaden sheen to their complexion. These were Sorthemen, he thought. He had seen a few of that folk at the wizard’s moot: with eyes like black stones and skin like grey pewter. He noted also more than one head was young enough to be counted a youth, or perhaps even a child. Fighting and killing in a battle can catch up child drummers and squires, but it nonetheless made the magician uncomfortable. He could not help but wonder. The clean cuts that he could see on some of the necks might have been the result of taking a head from an already dead corpse. Or the cuts might have been the result of execution. There was no way to know what might have happened.
“There are a great many dead here. How many did you lose?”
The red thegn glared at him, and looked for a moment as if he was going to refuse to answer. In the end, he said only, “Too many. We need more bodies to go with us on the next foray. Do you volunteer, wizard-man of the south?”
He smiled, pleasantly and in an even, level sort of way. “I might. I would like to see for myself the state of things.”
The man’s serious expression cracked. He spat a belly roar of a laugh. “The man in the silken robes is more man than all these knights in their dyed and gilt-edged armour then?”
“Redthorn.” The voice was low and hard, though it was barely more than a whispered hiss.
They all turned to the king.
The boy on the throne was trembling with the effort needed to hold himself upright and speak. “I do not appreciate this. You make a mockery of loyal lairds and good sword-thegns. Your overstep yourself. I ought have you thrown from the walls.”
“Then who would fight your battles for you, your grace? Who would wipe the bloodied crap from your withered arse?”
“I grow weary. Do not test me further, Redthorn.”
“And here I was thinking that you overstep yourself, nephew. I ought have you bent over and walloped with a willow-wand.”
The king began to outwardly shake all over.
“Sirs,” said Samakarantha, stepping between them and raising his palms. “Your grace. Your lordship. Please… please, be at peace. Infighting will only hasten the end. Fewer will be those who can stand against the tide.”
Redthorn cast a look at him. “Poor chosen words, magician. No one stands against the tide. The tide comes. The tide goes. None have the power to stop it. Who is to say the armies of the dark and frozen north are not the tide then? Who is to say that any here can stem that flood?” He then openly spat on the floor. There was crimson mixed in with the spittle. He must be injured inside somwhere. “Ah, hag-blast me and blast all of you. I thought to stoke fires and passions, put some fear into you all. But I see only quivering and worry.”
“My advice,” said the king, “is that it is not wise to ride out and meet a host whose numbers we do not reckon. The walls of Brae are thick and tall. The walls of the fortress are thicker and taller. We have deep wells for water. We have deep cold stores of food. We have seawalls and towers. The shipping of the port will not easily be cut off.” This rush of words left him seemingly giddy with exhaustion. He slipped backwards almost immediately, and his attendant, Mathion, moved to take his arm and keep him from slipping off of the throne.
“Go!” said Mathion. “He grace is done with you. Go now.” His voice did not brook further discussion.
“Come on. We’ve nothing to see here but whining, trembling jackdaws.” Redthorn left the room and his soldiers trailed after him. Some muttered. Some limped. Some walked in the pale, shocked silence that sometimes follows a bloody fight.
They were filing out the door when Samakarantha spoke. “If I may?”
“Yes, wizard?” said Mathion.
“I ask that I might go after those who have fought and see if I might heal and tend to wounds. Some seemed to me to be in need of the old lore of the healer.”
The king said nothing but seemed to give a faint nod. Beside him, Mathion spoke, quietly, “Go if you must. But do not expect welcome nor thanks. Laird Redthorn is not known for being welcoming of strangers.”
“I will go with care and make my offers prudently.”
Mathion nodded and waved him away.
Samakarantha had lost sight of the soldiers and foot-knights, but the trail was easy enough to follow. More than one was trailing bloody footsteps behind them.
-oOo-
He found them gathered outside, atop a battlement that provided a wide, clear view of the north. The hurrying lines and tangles of refugees could be seen. The hills behind them were growing dim in the late afternoon light. High above, grey-black clouds were chased over the sky by a cold wind. Cracks of luminescent blue were visible between the shadowy masses.
Every soldier and knight who stood there was bracing themselves against that same cold wind. Cloaks were pulled tight, and wherever a hem was loose, it flapped and flagged violently.
“You again,” said Redthorn when he saw the magician. It was not a question, and delivered flatly. It might have been a remark upon a mild turn in the weather or an unpleasant but otherwise harmless bug, for all that the tone revealed anything of the man’s thought.
“Indeed. Myself, again. I thought to offer to lay my words and stories upon those of you whose wounds need tending.”
“And what good would that be? Words are words. Flesh is flesh. Blood spilled is blood lost.”
Samakarantha smiled. “And, good lord, is it not also true that magic is magic? For you see, there is an artfulness in the tale well told, and that is itself a sort of magic. What harm is there in allowing a kind word, well spoken?”
Redthorn shrugged. “If you will.”
Samakarantha kept the smile on his face and let it suffuse a little into his eyes as he spoke the words of charms. “There were once brave warriors, goodly and strong. They went out, searching for enemies, and it was enemies they found. The battle was bitter, swift and bloody.” More than a few faces turned towards him, curious, “When they returned, many were grievous in their wounds, and painful in their injured flesh. But a sorcerer from distant lands chanced to be there, and he went among them and spoke fine words and invoked old arts, and upon them was put a soft and gentle healing. Their wounds did not throb. The pus and the poison in the blood were cleansed. The pulse of pain and injury ebbed from them. The charm went through them and they were salved. That night, when they slept, much healing came upon them. And in the morning, the sun found the wounds pale-knitted and stitched with old scars. Dire, deathly wounds that might have killed, were turned to old war-wounds, a token to remember a battle by, but no more than this.”
Samakarantha was trembling in his fingers and shivering a little about the shoulders when he was done. The magic ate its way through him, taking away warmth and life. Although he had the biloko to draw from, they were a long way off in the house, so that to work this artfulness, he had needed to draw down on some of his own life. Probably, he had just lost a few months from the end of his own days, more or less. Everything looked a little vague and gauzy to him, though within a few moments his vision started to clear.
They were all looking at him, some puzzled, some irritated.
“I don’t feel nuthin’,” one of them said.
The laird, Redthorn, seemed to agree. “I was badly done by a boggart-axe from behind. If not for me cuirass, I’d be dead. I’ve got bruising and raw flesh all across my chest as thanks for the blow, and it doesn’t feel any better. Still hurts like a red hot bath in boiling tar. If that was a curing spell, it ain’t worked.”
The magus inclined his head. “No. It worked. The healing is upon you. But healing is not done in a twinkle of enchantment with glitter and light–unless you want to be turned into something wholly inhuman in the making of the spellwork. Healing can be encouraged. It can be sped up. A cut can be cleaned. And sleep can be made more restorative than it might otherwise have naturally been. That is the best that I can do, and it is the best that I have done. You will find tomorrow that your injuries are closed and your wounds are itchy with healing.” He then turned back, facing the way the had come from. The wind took hold of his robes and cloak and spun them around him, wrapping him like a mumiya. The coldness felt good against his cheeks. A feverishness was crawling in his skin, after the spell-raising. “You will find me, if you want me, at the House of Hissocking Sprent.”
“The haunted old tower-house?” said one of the men.
“No longer haunted,” he replied. “I have bought it and I have put the ghosts to rest. Come seek me, if you find that your wounds are better with the dawn.”
At that he walked away, all the while doing his best not to stumble as he went. The magic had taken more out of him that day than he had anticipated. He needed rest himself.
-oOo-
Samakarantha was making his way through the halls of the fortress when he began to notice clamor and commotion. Guards ran by, fixing their helms hurriedly on their heads. He saw knights hastily taking up swords, only half-armoured in chest-plates and mail coats, and running. The magician caught one of the passing men by the arm. “What is this? Is the enemy already at the gates.”
“Some are saying so, but it ain’t no army. It’s a great demonic beast in the shape of a horse. He has a wee slip of a youth on his back, and they’re both demanding entry into the town. Pikes and spears are being sent.”
“This demonic beast–is it a horse-ish thing with a skull face and a dapple-black pelt?”
The guardsman looked taken aback. “How did you know? Your sorcerous skills, I guess.” He edged back a step.
“Not at all. We’ve met, I think. A long way from here. Many months ago. But, we have met. I shall go with you to the gates. It seems there will be no rest for me today. Lead on.” He followed as the guardsman scurried ahead of him.
“Is the creature a great foe?” asked the guard, over his shoulder.
“Dapplegrim? He is a great foe, I suppose, but luckily not for you or me. He and his lady rider are on our side, as it happens.”
But the man stopped and shook his head. “Lady? No. It’s a thin scarecrow of a lad on the beast’s back. Not a lady.”
This put Samakarantha’s thoughts immediately to wonder and worry. What had happened to separate Dapplegrim and Caewen, and who was this lad? “We had best hurry. Before anyone tries to poke the beast with something pointy. That would not do.”
“No indeed, I suppose. This is the quickest way, good Laird-Magus.”
And together they went quickly through the fortress and out the great gates at the brow of the hill. It might have just been a trick of the wind, but Samakarantha was half-certain he could hear raised voices from the town’s northern gates, even at distance and over rooftops and chimneys.
“We really had best hurry,” he said, more emphatically.
And they did.