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167
Battle
Battle
“You can’t move him”, the wiry girl insisted. “That blade’s into the wood!” Fighting was audible in the distance, but not a person in the gate room cared.
“Points will die from blood”, big man argued, even as he and two other cranked the gate another notch.
“He has herbs for bleeding.” The voice was Prick’s, coming from under Oran, and it was desperate and scared.
“Which ones?” Cuchilla asked. So when Casey got there with Dugal, he found a female thief sorting through packets, instructed by a voice from beneath his friend.
“Here”, he commanded, wishing they hadn’t disturbed the pouch, since all the Scouts organized their herbs the same way. Still, he could tell which was which easily; Ocean had symbols for each. “This, and this”, he ordered, “in wine., enough for a paste.” Those were powders; one caused clotting, the other killed bacteria and weakened cells. “Slice his clothes off him. Is the place secure?”
“You’re Casey. Yes, it’s secure”, Cuchilla replied as she set to work removing Oran’s upper clothes. “We got a rope to your friends outside. Is help coming?”
Casey winced as his weight shifted onto his injured ankle. “Yeah. Soon, I hope.”
“Druid Ander!” Dugal cried, as the Druid appeared. “Can you....?”
“Gray man”, Cuchilla whispered. A rifle volley sounded from the castle courtyard. Musket reports were few, and ragged.
“More than you fear, not as much as you hope”, Arden stated. He set his staff on the floor, where it remained upright, drawing gasps and stares, and knelt. Hands moved toward Oran’s bare back, slipping and weaving side to side with little flutters, finally settling.
“The dead give life”, the Druid intoned. Casey understood: Arden was drawing life energy from the men dying in the fight, to strengthen Oran – with the side effect that the men Montdragón and Castellán were facing were going to be dropping unnaturally quickly. As he watched, Oran’s blood stopped trickling out; it clung to him. Breathing was next, steadying, smoothing.
“The blade is sharp and clean” Arden noted. “I can bind the tissues – Scout Three, carefully, slowly, draw out the blade.”
Casey anchored himself in Streaker’s calm attitude toward the universe, where what was, was, the future still in the future and not to be feared. A weapon approaching with intent to harm was something to be feared; a weapon already in the body was not. Centered, he grasped the weapon and began to pull. It jerked at first, coming loose, but after that slid evenly.
“I cannot close the lung”, the Druid told the small group.
Casey shuddered; the idea of a lung collapsed inside a chest disturbed him. “I know how to fix that”, he announced. “I need wax, silk, a water jug or skin, and some small tubes.”
The equipment was nearly set up when a Healer arrived, a former Quistador named Eufenia. She stared at the arrangement a good dozen heartbeats. “I see – the air goes through the water to cleanse it, while the water keeps the air from just blowing out. Begin – I will heal as things are set right.”
Before it was done, she fell back. “No more strength”, she whispered, taking a skin from her hip. “Honeyed wine”, she related, upended it, and squirted a steady stream into her throat.
Oran moved; Casey and Dugal helped him sit. Pricks unbent himself. “You saved my life, Points. You don’t know me.”
Oran stared a moment, then shrugged. “It was the right thing to do”, he explained lamely. He took a deep breath, shuddering as he sucked it in, trembling as he let it out between clenched teeth. “Healer, can I walk?”
“No fighting or jumping around, and yes.”
“I will give you energy”, Arden declared. “You wish to join Lord Enrico?”
“Yes.” He undid a cover and pulled out his Kinner-Ruger. “Healer, should I use this?”
“With restraint. She paused. “Your left hand.”
Oran nodded. “Good. Casey, yours loaded?”
His friend nodded. “You got two?”
Oran laughed. “Master Kinner made sure Scouts and lords get two. Come on!” The Scout tried to jump up, but it was more of a climb, using Prick’s shoulder.
They caught up to Castellán on the third floor. “Are we close?” was the first thing Oran asked, taking care to moderate his breathing – that lung still hurt.
“You’re wounded?” asked Enrico.
“And Healed, and strengthened”, Oran explained. “I’m not supposed to fight – but I have a couple of tricks, in case.”
“Guard Lord Oran”, the soon-to-be Count ordered two men. He gave the Scout a considering glance. “But trust his instincts.”
A single corner later proved the value of that command. A rush came at them; Oran’s brain evaluated faster than conscious thought. “Kneel!” he yelled at one of his escorts, the revolver coming down. His first shot was aimed; a bloody hole opened in a bare chest. Brave man, he thought, attacking half-naked. But there was no time for honors, or even thoughts of honors. The second bullet went a little wild, but the random processes of the universe favored him: it ripped out the side of a throat as his target ducked reflexively; throat come low, aim for the heart made high, and jugular blood surged.
There was no need to aim for the third man. Austin’s lessons guided Oran now: both hands on the gun, pull it in, elbows to sides, and shoot by feel, looking where you want to hit. It worked like a charm, though he added a second shot because the man just kept coming. A gut wound brought both hands where humans always put them, and Oran’s second escort took his head. The threat he’d chosen to handle dealt with, Oran emptied his last round into the first foe his eyes found. Right hand slapped sidearm to rest, left hand drew, and he stood ready.
The fighting was beyond him now. A man lay dead in front of his right-hand escort; the left was dueling. He stepped on the corpse to his right, helping his ally get his blade free. Then he gave his concentration to the melee. “This is their last effort”, he thought out loud. A loud report sounded, drawing his attention – Casey was slapping out empty brass and fumbling with a quick-loader. “Stupid”, Oran muttered, stopping the man who was about to be a threat to his fellow Scout with a round that might have struck the heart, but definitely punctured both lungs. Nausea threatened; the man would die of suffocation. When he came to rest on one hand, Scout Two took steady aim and granted mercy, right through the left ear.
Casey’s Kinner-Ruger came up now. It spat out three shots in quick order, ending the careers of two castle guards. Oran got the one behind those. That fast, the fighting was done, none any longer even in sight or hearing. He took the moment to reload, the slow way, round by round. Casey emulated him. When they were ready, they nodded to each other. “I’ve got point”, Casey said. Behind them Oran heard a sharp gasp; a look over his shoulder showed Prick and Cuchilla methodically making sure of the dead – and emptying their pockets. He grinned wryly at that, but a part of him judged that since they’d come to battle, they deserved it; this wasn’t a thief’s risk.
“That was all they had”, Casey marveled as he rounded the next corner. Only two more lay dead here, both older than should have been expected. A rifle volley testified that Daly’s squad was dealing with the barracks. Oran shook his head at the waste, and headed for the doorway where Enrico stood looking in.
Count Nevarez sat on the end of the bed, a smoking musket in his right hand. A final guard lay on the floor, his blood running along the low paths of the stone. “You!” he spat finally, and threw the musket at Enrico. “In my generosity I allow you to camp in the square, and you let Celts into the city and into my castle! I suppose”, he sneered, you wish a reward for coming to my aid.”
It was a fine and moderate irrationality. Enrico went straight to the point. “No. What I wish is to repay you for the evil you have done to my father and family. I wish for you to never threaten them again. So by noon tomorrow I shall be Count. What to do–“ He broke off at the sound of running footsteps followed by the skid of boots on stone.
“Lord Enrico! Lord Oran!” the boy gasped. “Lord Montdragón sends greetings, and bids me say he holds the wall from the gate to the castle.”
“Montdragón!” the Count exclaimed, practically screaming. “You name a sell-sword ‘lord’? How did you come to hire him?”
“He found a better coin than gold”, Oran told Nevarez. “One you could never pay.”
“Lords?” the messenger asked.
“What else?” asked Enrico.
“The townspeople... they begin to riot. And the Celts are becoming unruly.”
“I can go”, Casey declared. “It’s better than standing here wanting to shoot the Count.”
“Wait.” Cuchilla’s tone commanded attention. “Give the people another target.” Slowly she swung her head to regard the Count.
“Brilliant!” Casey said. “Now I’m gone!” Behind him, he heard the Count babble wildly as the girl thief's meaning sank in.
The front of the Pickled Cock was a wreck, the interior a shambles. Casey commandeered a half dozen Quistadors and set three of them to guarding the block, then headed north toward the loudest noise. On the next block he came on two Celts, one holding a woman and the other on her. “Get off!” snapped the Scout.
“Git away, runt”, the one holding her retorted.
“You dishonor your tribe”, Casey said, persisting. “Your chief agreed no rape. Now let her go.”
Both men laughed. Casey remembered Austin’s tale of rescuing Valentina; all thoughts of mercy vanished. His legs made three strides, his hand drew his revolver... from six inches away he blew the man’s brains out. “Run”, he told the other. “To the ends of the earth.” The man ran. Casey turned and threw up on the Celt he’d just killed.
“You dishonor him”, a nearby Celt claimed.
“Fuck that – he dishonored himself”, Casey snapped back. Voices murmured agreement. “You five – spread the word that the penalty for rape is dishonorable death.” He turned to his three Quistadors. “Come on; let’s calm this down.”
The square and nearby blocks quieted fast enough, as word spread of Casey’s justice, that from two blocks away Casey heard don Rodolfo’s announcement that they would bring the Count out, to deliver to the town for their justice. Townspeople began streaming toward the square, alerted by boys Casey had paid to spread an invitation.
Castellán had the Count dragged to his own torture room. From rumors, Enrico was certain the man knew what damage the tools here could inflict – tools he meant to have melted down for something more useful – kitchen spoons and ladles, perhaps. Merely the fear, he presumed, would drive some truth out of Nevarez, truth about any hidden hoards of coin or gems. In the event, he was more than right.
“Arden, shouldn’t you be with Lord Oran?” Enrico inquired.
“I can help.”
The future Count’s eyebrows rose. “You know torture?”
He didn’t expect the laugh he got – soft, sad. “Not as you think of it. Grant me leave?”
To do as you wish. Curiosity tipped the scales. “If only to see what you do”, he replied, nodding agreement.
“Only one thing. Proceed as you would”, Arden responded. “And I as I.”
Castellán was intrigued to see that all the Druid did was order the prisoner to grasp his staff. The moment Nevarez saw one of his replacement’s men pick up a tool that looked like a corkscrew with razor-sharp edges, he screamed – and kept screaming until Arden slapped his wrist. The Count looked down at his own flesh, still whole, then looked up at Arden, pure horror on his face.
“He just experienced his own fears”, the Druid explained to satisfy Castellán’s desire for knowledge. “He will now answer you truthfully – his spirit desires to cooperate.
“Experienced his own fears.” Enrico looked from Count to Druid and back, and back again. “To him, how long did it last?”
Arden shrugged. “Hours, I judge. His mind is full of terrors witnessed in this room. He would feel himself in them, for as long as he actually witnessed.”
The edge of sorrow in the Druid’s voice touched Enrico. “You have a hard calling, grey man”, he whispered. “I do not envy you, even with all your power.” Arden bowed to him solemnly, accepting that accolade. Castellán turned to the Count. “Now, questions.” He smiled, triumph washed out by what he’d just seen, replaced by pity. “Tell me, Nevarez....” he began.
Oran found the book tucked into the complex headboard, in a nearly secret chamber. He leafed through it and discovered charts and descriptions. “The Count’s lineage”, he muttered, flipping toward the back. “Wow... and crap.” He snapped the small volume shut. “Enrico has to see this.”
Rape and violence dropped; now Casey had another problem: Celts were stripping people of anything valuable, and he knew that hadn’t been part of the deal. He tried corralling various Celts and explaining it, to little avail, before inspiration struck in the form of Leg. “I need all the thieves”, he told the kid. “These warriors don’t know how to just take a fair share from someone. Run!” The Scout wasn’t even aware of the irony of calling thieves to teach fairness and mercy.
Leg didn’t have to run far; the Queen of Hands had her people out in force anyway. A deal was quickly struck – her “wealth experts” would work with the Celts to keep them in line; the Quistadors, whose faces might be remembered, were Casey’s concern. The masked woman who’d come to talk with him asked how much wealth they could take. “A fifth”, Casey said, remembering something about that being the traditional amount for tribute. This wasn’t tribute, it was plunder, but if it was good enough for a king, it was good enough for thieves. He didn’t realize until later what he’d set off; the Celts and thieves just kept plundering until the Castellán banner ran up above the castle. By that quirk of fate, the part of town between the gate and the great square became poorer as the rest was spared.
Daly intercepted Oran just outside the castle gate. “Where’s Castellán?”
“Inside. What’s up?”
“The barracks will surrender, but only to someone of rank.”
Dugal joined them. “They seem urgent to surrender, Scout Two.”
Oran sighed. “I’m not moving fast. Dugal, go get Enrico – he took the Count to question him.”
His fellow Scout grimaced. “Torture chamber”, he said, with a dark look. “I’ll ask a guard.”
“What’s the book?” Daly asked.
“Let’s walk to those barracks”, Oran replied. He held up the book. “It’s got the Count’s lineage.”
Daly understood. It wouldn’t have been the same in Celt society, where tanistry was the rule, but he’d soaked up a lot from rubbing shoulders with lords. “Heirs. Dangers for our Count.”
“Yeah”, Oran agreed. “But what will he do about it?” The two pondered as they walked.
Castellán did reach the barracks first, by a half dozen strides. “I will not accept this surrender”, he said. “I need an officer of equal rank to the one within.”
Dugal grasped that somewhat. “So you need a captain.”
“Not merely a captain, but one of nobility. The barracks commander likely is a caballero.”
Oran arrived to hear the last. “Shouldn’t be a Celt, either – they might not surrender to a ‘barbarian’.”
“Or one who appears a Quistador”, Enrico mused, still staring at Dugal. “Lord Oran, if I may?”
Oran had no idea what Castellán had in mind, but he’d come to trust the viscount’s son. “Certainly”, he said. “We’ll help, if you need us.”
“Just one”, Enrico told him with a chuckle. “Tell me – is this Scout honorable, courageous, merciful, generous?” He didn’t look away from Dugal.
“Well....” Dugal shot Oran a seriously irritated look, for that hesitation. “Yes, Enrico, he is that. Also trustworthy, loyal, helpful, and friendly.”
The Count-to-be nodded. “A viscount’s son is sufficient”, he thought out loud. “Scout Dugal, kneel.”
Still puzzled, Dugal knelt. Oran suppressed a laugh as Castellán drew his sword and dropped its tip to Dugal’s right shoulder. “Que Dios te dé la fuerza para hacer lo recto, a prestar su fuerza a lo recto.” -- May God give you strength to do what is right, to lend your strength to what is right. The blade switched shoulders. Dugal looked shocked, offended, then resigned. “Que Él te conceda a hacer justicia, amar misericordia, y caminar humildemente con Él.” – May He grant you to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Him. Dugal grew a small, wry smile. “Levantate, Señor Dugal, caballero.”
Dugal got up. “I’m not an officer”, he pointed out.
“You’ve commanded people”, Oran reminded him. “Pay attention, now – I think you’re about to be made a captain.”
“I won’t look like one.”
Oran laughed, and turned to take his knife to a dead man's gear. The moment Enrico finished pronouncing Dugal a captain, Scout Two was ready with a lacquered breastplate. He stuck an arrow into a bullet hole and snapped it off, hiding the hole, shaking his head at the disparity in technology – no musket had made that hole. “Stand still while I strap this on. Now, a helmet....” He found one nondescript enough to be worn by a Quistador or Celt and stuck it on Dugal’s head. “Doesn’t fit right, so yours must have come off in the fighting and you grabbed this to replace it.”
Dugal grinned weakly and shook his head. “Always has an answer, Scout Two does. Okay, I’ll go accept their surrender.”
He learned they had one other condition: their captain was wounded, possibly fatally, and they wanted aid. “Daly, send men and find Healer Eufenia. If she has any strength left.”
“I can aid”, Arden said.
Oran hadn’t noticed the Druid arrive, but he nodded. “Dugal, lead.”
The Celt Scout added a touch as they reached the barracks. “This way, Lord Oran, Wise Arden.” He knew better than to say “Druid”, in this place. To the men blocking the entry, he urged access to their captain. One led them.
“His abdomen is punctured, and his digestive tubes perforated”, Arden observed before even touching the man. He knelt and touched exposed flesh on the chest. “A rough weapon – there is tiny tearing.” Oran shook his head at the mix of sophisticated and mundane language. “I can give strength.” The Druid looked around. “How do you value your captain?” he inquired softly.
“I would have taken the blows for him”, a soldier declared. “I also” asserted another. Seven more joined them.
Arden nodded. “Join hands, and you take mine”, he instructed, looking at the first to speak. Oran wanted to join in, but knew he would be foolish to spend his energy that way.
One man’s eyes opened wide. Arden spared him a glance. “He has the idrûdh spark”, Dugal whispered. “Will the Dr– gray man take him?”
“I’d bet on it”, Oran replied. Moments later, he was proven right.
“There is a price”, Arden stated as he released the soldier’s hand. His gaze went to the sixth in line. “You will come with me – you have the talent.”
The man swallowed hard, but nodded. “I would have given my life for his”, he whispered. “And so I shall. Must I surrender weapons?” he asked.
Arden smiled and shook his head. “Our lives are as valuable as any – you must be able to protect yourself.”
“What is your weapon?”
Arden tapped his staff with a finger. It didn’t even wobble; it had been standing, though leaning against the Druid’s shoulder. “This suffices.” His expression left little room for doubt.
“He’s not kidding – I watched him take a sword and an axe at once, and disarm them”, Dugal informed Oran. “Then knock them flat.” The response was a whistle of appreciation.
Eufenia had arrived, and now stepped forward. “Give me room.” Her voice had a confidence the soldiers associated with nobility; they made way. The Healer took almost an entire minute before any reaction, then it was a sigh. “I can keep him alive, no more for now. Lord Oran, I am spent.”
“Thank you”, Scout Two replied quietly. “It’s nice to be alive.” The soldiers didn’t miss the exchange; seven of them shied back.
“It’s a gift of the Holy Spirit”, Oran asserted. “No need for fear.” He flashed a wan grin. “Else I would be angry at her for Healing me.” The theory they might have believed, or not; the plain statement of experience they accepted, and relaxed.
Eufenia spent just three seconds at work, then fell back. “His digestion tubes are repaired, weakly. He cannot be moved until I do more. And I must sleep.” It wasn’t a statement of intent, but necessity; she collapsed right there and slept.
“I could use some of that”, Oran said. But events didn’t allow him that just yet.
