Beneath Ceaseless Skies #19 Page 5

  “How’d you get him away?” asked Vinaldi.

  “I learned to pick locks as an apprentice,” smiled Havoc, unlacing his doublet and hanging it from a branch. “The guards took cover from the rain, just giving their prisoner occasional glances. We put Zahn’s cloak over a barrel. Through the rain, it looked just like him.”

  Zahn snatched an oak gall off a limb and lobbed it at Havoc, who laughed and deflected it with a negligent hand. Havoc started digging through his saddlebags and pulled out a dry shirt.

  “The gate was the tricky part. I suspect they recognized the horse and opened for him out of habit.”

  No chance, I thought, would anyone mistake even the two of you together as Dirk Alzarin. Even in the rain. A worm of doubt squirmed. Mydicea, and the tricks of perception attributed to Datura’s assassin priests, were too deeply engrained in my soul. I actually opened my mouth to question—

  But then Havoc stripped off his shirt.

  I lost all thought of Alzarin and the improbabilities of the story. That bared back, before he covered it with the dry blouse, was a network of ridged scar tissue. The gullies between were deep enough to bury a lass’s fingers.

  How had he gotten such a beating? Beatings, for some of the scars were clearly older. He could’ve been no more than a child for those earlier ones. It was a wonder he’d survived.

  Had he been a slave? It would explain the sheer joy with which he dove into every experience, the reason he drank life down like water on a summer day. But, no. Surely not?

  He turned to face us, lacing up the yolk, and paused at our regard. Havoc raised his eyebrows, tilted his head, and waited.

  “The scars?” I ventured, when no one else dared ask.

  He relaxed visibly, and with a self-deprecating smile said, “I was an unsatisfactory apprentice.”

  It wasn’t until fortnights later, when other events recalled my unasked questions, that I realized he’d let us see the scars as a distraction.

  * * *

  Havoc grew more sober after that. Not that his habits changed, nor our tactics. But I’d catch him watching us with concern, glancing around at the troop before calling a halt at mid-day, or ordering a change of clothes if someone got dunked during a night crossing. And he began encouraging us to talk about our plans, our hopes and dreams. One of the lads had a knack for carpentry, and Havoc found him a place among the Roenish army’s engineers. Another confessed to a farmer’s love of the land, and shortly found himself employed in the vineyards.

  No one had to ask where Havoc was when he disappeared after Travan D’Strigides was captured by the Cumberans. But three days with no word left us wondering if our leader were in Duke Cudgel’s dungeon.

  It was a sober Havoc, indeed, who returned to us on the third evening. He declined to say where he’d been, but asked me how he might arrange a meeting with King Daphed to convey a message from Commander D’Strigides. All my forgotten suspicions from the moon before swept like a flash-fire through my brain.

  I made the arrangements he asked by offering to play for the court, and then taking Havoc along to the Royal encampment. Night found us in the great hall of Duke Setigera’s Keep as his noble guests finished their evening repast. I sang of events that King Daphed would remember from his time on the Mydicean Campaign, of disasters large and small and the horror of Datura’s assassins slipping amongst us unseen. Then I sang of the last offensive, of the fall of General Hanbel and Mydicea City. And I sang my Ode to Solanum Adamanté, of his great sacrifice, and saw not a dry eye in the hall...except Havoc’s.

  He gazed into the distance, absently turning the ring on his finger. I admit I was disappointed, but I could not help the desire to know his thoughts at such a time.

  I planned to wrap up with a song or two about the present campaign. Under the gaze of the duchess, and mindful of her request, I couldn’t sing ‘Questre’s Ride’. But ‘Old Soldier’ and ‘Havoc’s Band’ set things up nicely. I introduced my inspiration, and gave him opportunity to deliver his message. It turned out to be on a scrolled parchment he produced from up his sleeve.

  King Daphed turned grim as he perused the missive. The Duchess Questre, when he handed it to her, might have been stone.

  “Where is he being held?” King Daphed inquired, after solemn contemplation of the mercenary scout before him.

  “In the hall occupied by the Lord Marshal’s personal guard; chained to the wall. He believes himself in no immediate danger, safe from Duke Cudgel.”

  “This is by his hand?”

  “It is, your Highness. He said you would recognize the necessity.”

  “Do you?”

  For the first time, Havoc paused. “He explained it, Your Highness.”

  And just how had he had personal communication with a prisoner kept chained to the wall in the hall occupied by Dirk Alzarin’s personal guards? I knew those men. No chance would a stranger be permitted to slip into their private domain for a chat with their prisoner. Unless....

  But, no. Another case of mistaken identity involving the too-distinctive Havoc was beyond all probability. The worm of doubt squirmed again. I quashed it, resolving to have a long talk with Zahn.

  Silence.

  Then, “Until such time as Commander D’Strigides returns to active duty on our behalf, you will report to the Duchess Questre on all matters pertaining to your activities.” King Daphed gave us three days to formally report.

  It wasn’t ‘til we’d rejoined the rest of the troop and were settled by the fire that I managed to inquire as to the contents of the message.

  “Unless it’s a secret,” I added, hoping he’d tell anyway.

  “I don’t suppose it is,” Havoc conceded. “He requested King Daphed disallow Questre to offer ransom on his behalf.”

  “I could see it being a bad idea to allow Dirk Alzarin any suspicion he holds one whom the duchess values,” I mused. “But why would she offer such ransom?” This was the secret, and Havoc’s answer was a long time coming.

  “You are an honorable man, Bard,” he said, those dark eyes pinning me like a lance. “You’ve shown me that you care whether any words of yours might bring others to harm. I will tell you this, and you must breathe word of it to no one: Travan D’Strigides is Questre’s heir.”

  Dirk Alzarin had in his hands the perfect tool to force the much-sought duchess’ cooperation, and he didn’t know it.

  I couldn’t breathe. The significance of this filled my head; tried to squeeze out my ears. I bit my tongue and kept it inside.

  The following evening we reported to Questre’s camp. She made clear she’d leave our activities and planning in Havoc’s hands, as D’Strigides had done.

  And the story Zahn told in private contained a richness of detail his rescuer had left out, but differed significantly in no feature from the tale Havoc told us that first morning. It wasn’t reassuring.

  * * *

  Why is it that a lass’s scream draws no attention, but a man’s brings on the cavalry?

  Perhaps I’m pessimistic. Perhaps the cavalry was already on its way, having heard her cries for help. Perhaps we only got there first.

  In the darkness we heard them coming. We finished off the last of the perpetrators quickly, and may have been a bit sloppy. Several of us took injuries, and Vinaldi hopped on one leg when Zahn brought his horse, but the eight culprits lay dead.

  With no time for gentler considerations, Havoc swung the rescued lass up behind him. We lost our pursuit by ducking aside and waiting silent in the inky depths under the trees as they thundered past. Ever unpredictable, Havoc led us deeper into Cumberan Mirze-side, dodging patrols and encampments, to the Sisters of Light convent where they practiced the healing arts. It didn’t surprise me to find the gate trees festooned with ribbons.

  Havoc waved us back and rode directly to the portal.

  Repeated pounding brought a portress to the gate...and a bevy of novices to the walls, despite the early hour. Or maybe because of it. Life in a conven
t can’t see a great deal of excitement, and a pre-dawn visitor meant something unusual afoot. Women peered from the walls, their faces pale blurs in the dimness.

  The tearful lass kissed Havoc’s fingers as he handed her down. I saw him pass his purse to the portress, and knew it contained a fortnight’s wages. But I didn’t see more of what passed at the gate because at that point Zahn gave a cry. I only realized Vinaldi was leaning in time to see him tumble silently from his horse.

  He hit the ground without so much as a groan.

  Zahn, dropping to kneel at his side, lifted Vinaldi’s hand and bit off another cry. By dawn’s milky light the hand was black with blood, having been pressed to an injury to staunch the bleeding.

  When my hand touched his leg, I found it sopping and sticky. A nasty gash above his knee gushed blood. I pressed the lips of the wound together with my hands while calling for something to use as a tourniquet.

  Half a furlong distant, Havoc heard me. He snagged a long, pale streamer from the gate tree, galloping back to dismount on the fly.

  The ribbon proved to be a white one, half the width of my hand, made of silk thread woven with long pale hair, as I saw later. Havoc doubled it, wrapped it around Vinaldi’s leg above the wound, tied it off, and tightened it by thrusting a stick through the knot and twisting.

  The bleeding stopped, but now the big bronze convent bell was tolling alarm. The strident peal was bound to draw the nearest Cumberan encampment.

  Havoc looked around, his face pale and eyes pools of desperate darkness. “Marcoen, hold him! Zahn, see to our horses! The rest of you, go! If we don’t catch up, report to Questre. Move!”

  No one questioned or hesitated. A few moments later, we were alone in a sunrise, silent but for a tolling bell and chorus of novices begging us to flee.

  Havoc never noticed. He knelt, neck bent as if in prayer, with his hands spread over the severed tissues of the swordsman’s knee.

  Vinaldi screamed.

  “Hold him!” Havoc ordered, and I applied all my weight and leverage to keeping our patient down and his leg still.

  “Severan! Stop!” gasped Vinaldi, conscious again despite his death-like pallor.

  ”Be still!” snapped Havoc. With my help, the swordsman managed.

  Havoc raised his hands from the wound, and Vinaldi whimpered. Havoc’s knife slashed a wider cut in the fabric of the breeches; he wiped clear the unbroken skin beneath.

  And it was unbroken. Only a thin, reddened line remained of the crippling wound. Havoc loosed the tourniquet, then bade Vinaldi stand.

  Vinaldi stood, though he swayed a bit. I felt hollow and shaky, myself.

  Havoc stepped back, waiting.

  Vinaldi shifted carefully, staring in awe at his knee. At last he swung the leg forward in a full stride, bent it in a swordsman’s lunge...and slowly, slowly dropped to his other knee, gazing fully on Havoc’s face.

  “A crippled swordsman is a dead one, no matter how good he has been,” Vinaldi pledged as Zahn, too, fell to his knees in fealty. “My life is yours to command.”

  “Live it well,” Havoc ordered. He raised his eyes to mine, then, bleak and tragic, awaiting my verdict.

  For a word, a name from me, and he was dead. It all came together, his uncanny talent for passing unseen among the enemy hosts, his penchant for miring the shreds of their morale. I knew who he was.

  Solanum Adamanté, who’d slain a nether-god and toppled the ruling dynasty of the most powerful empire in the known world, all at the ripe old age of fifteen.

  “We all believed you died,” I said.

  “I did.”

  I understood, then, the joy with which he reveled in being alive. No, he hadn’t been a slave. Perhaps he’d been worse. Now, having survived the destruction of Datura’s temple, he was free to be his own man, to create himself anew without the bonds of his heritage—but only if that heritage remained secret.

  The bell ceased its plangent toll, but its damage must already be done. “We’d best go,” I said.

  Havoc nodded as Zahn and Vinaldi rose to their feet. As he gathered the reins of his steed, Havoc gazed in perplexity at the fluttering tails of smudged, pale ribbon in his hand. He glanced back toward the gate tree as if to return it.

  “Too late,” said Vinaldi, recovering a weak semblance of his usual humor. “Even if we kept it quiet, they’ve all seen.” He gestured toward the top of the convent wall where the nuns were trying unsuccessfully to roust the novices.

  “It’s ruined,” Havoc admitted. “Should I buy her another? How will I know who to return it to?”

  “You don’t return it. You’re engaged!”

  Horror washed over Havoc’s face. “You mean I’ve taken the token some girl has set out for her love to claim?”

  Zahn snorted, and Vinaldi laughed aloud. “It was there for you!” Vinaldi guffawed, pounding his liege on the back and then carefully mounting the shaggy pony Zahn led over.

  “They’re all for you,” I said. “Every ribbon in the valley! You never noticed?”

  He stared at the limp ribbon lying like a dead thing across his palm, then in dismay up at the novices gathered, now silent, on the distant wall.

  “Relax, my liege,” chuckled Vinaldi. “She must know you have no idea who she is and can never claim her. It’s the best kind of betrothed to have,” he tossed over his shoulder as he reined his horse away. “The kind you’ll never marry!”

  * * *

  It’s with irony that I recall those words, all these years later. The gods have a bitter sense of humor that it was Vinaldi who said them, poor man.

  I’ve written no more songs of Havoc. My journal contains scraps and notes of his later deeds, his rise to nobility, his growing family, but I dare put none of it into song for fear I’ll lose myself in the trance of performance and something irretrievable will slip out.

  For I know I have already said too much.

  On the edge of the territories of the Mydicean Republic, in a tavern, sits a group of Hanbel’s veterans who work for the Mydicean Council keeping peace. The night grows deep as a minstrel plays for the thinning crowd. To the last hangers on, he offers the latest of my creations to make its way south: a tale of a mercenary scout who’s got the great Dirk Alzarin chasing his tail.

  They know me, and they know Dirk Alzarin. They laugh in appreciation of the scout’s cleverness, and comment on how I have woven in my experience with Hanbel’s army being devilled by Datura’s assassins.

  Except...no killing. It almost sounds as if Solanum, the rebel Adamanté, is alive and applying his training....

  They look one to another, suddenly sober despite the night’s excesses. Silent.

  Nervous, denying laughter breaks the mood and they drink deeper than ever.

  May all my songs, forever after, be taken as a joke, if only to keep that laughter alive!

  Copyright © 2009 A.C. Smart & Quinn Braver

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  A.C. Smart and Quinn Braver are the co-authors of “Hell Hath No Furies” in L. Marie Wood’s anthology Hell Hath No Fury and “Witch” in David Bain’s anthology Modern Mage, Ancient Magic. Smart, a sometime teacher, writes to prevent being over-whelmed by reality. Two cats allow her to cohabit with them; they come when called and are generally more obedient than students. Braver currently resides between the Smokies and Cumberland Mountains with her husband and three cats. She’s the Senior Creative Nonfiction Editor for Conclave: A Journal of Character.

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  COVER ART

  “Endless Skies,” by Rick Sardinha

  Rick Sardinha is a professional illustrator/fine artist living and working on the outskirts of Providence, Rhode Island. His passion is to create in traditional oil media, however, he is just as comfortable in front of a computer and often uses multiple disciplines in the image creation process. More of his work can be seen at http://www.battleduck.com.

  This file is distributed under a Creative
Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 3.0 U.S. license. You may copy and share the file so long as you retain the attribution to the authors, but you may not sell it and you may not alter it or partition it or transcribe it.

  Table of Contents

  “The Mansion of Bones,” by Richard Parks

  “Havoc,” by A.C. Smart & Quinn Braver