David S. McWilliams

(Go back to Part 38)

Chapter 20

“Who is my enemy? The Plague? No.

I am but a vessel for the sacred fire.

Those who oppose me are not my enemy. Those who betray and ensnare me are not my enemy. Those who would feed me to the fires of destruction are not my enemy, for in the end we all become the flame.

My only enemy is my weakness.

The sacred flame will cleanse the world, if only I can carry it.”

–The Lexicon, Sunrise Doctrine 57:12

–

Life in the cave soon settled into a predictable pattern. Osmund would drill them every morning, while the afternoons were free for study or leisure as the Acolytes preferred. The only restriction was that they could not leave—there was no other supervision.

Most of the other Acolytes shunned Alex after her fight with Garth. She didn’t mind—what she did mind was being in the furthest cot from the fire at night, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. An extra blanket stolen from the storeroom helped.

Her only friend was Darrin the Bookbinder. They stayed up late talking most nights—Darrin knew a lot about politics and history, two subjects that McCann had done little to instruct Alex in. He explained the family histories of each of the Acolytes, detailing convoluted intermarriages and lines of succession.

“It’s all so complicated,” complained Alex one night. “We don’t have anything like this in the North.”

“There hasn’t been an outbreak here in a hundred years. What else is there to do?” replied Darrin.

Other Acolytes joined them every few days. Sometimes they came alone, and sometimes two or three at once. They were usually immaculate, with oil and perfume in their hair and gleaming white tunics. Alex envied their cleanliness and fine equipment, but she was especially jealous of the beautiful swords they carried. Most were new, gleaming with inlaid silver and etched patterns on their blades. She still was unarmed.

To vent her frustration, Alex continued her practice with the quarterstaff. She found a suitable piece of wood laid against the wall in one of the storerooms; she practiced with it whenever she was sick of talking with Darrin or reading books in the small barracks library. Mostly she worked in the evening, because it was harder to find her then. She practiced during the day a few times but soon stopped when the other Acolytes came to laugh at her. “Alex No-Sword!” they called her, “Alex Red-Hand!”

One evening, as Alex was starting to think about fetching the quarterstaff from under her cot, Sir Osmund summoned them all downstairs.

“The Grand Master has returned to the citadel. The trials start tomorrow, so get a good night’s rest, you lot.”

They did no such thing, of course. The Acolytes stayed up half the night, talking amongst themselves and speculating as to what the first trial would be. Alex did not add to the conversation, but they allowed her to sit at the edge of the circle.

“I hear we’ll have to fight Sir Osmund!” said one.

“Ha! Old bastard—that’ll be easy.”

Alex doubted Osmund would be an easy foe, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

“Nah, maybe we’ll have to fight each other.”

“Well, we all know how that’ll end. Garth’ll beat us silly.”

“Maybe the last ten will get it?”

“You know, it’s not just skill at arms,” piped up Darrin. “There are exams, too—”

“Aw, shuddup, Bookbinder, no one makes knight because he can read and calculate!”

“They’ll make him a librarian for sure, he doesn’t even want to be a knight!”

“He’ll probably wet himself when he goes to draw . . .”

And so went the conversation.

Despite the Acolytes’ fevered anticipation, the first day of the trials was a major disappointment. Sir Osmund assembled them on the dirt floor of the cave and gave a long speech about the history of the Curate and what it meant to join the knighthood. Three vague shapes were visible in the latticed balcony, but it was impossible to tell who they were. After Osmund finished, they spent the entire day in drill without swords, moving through the motions of different routines again and again. Some of the boys began to get bored and started adding extra little gestures here and there when Osmund wasn’t looking and whispering to their friends. Alex didn’t have any friends, though—Darrin was on the other side of the block—and so she kept working through the movements. Sometimes she thought of McCann’s strange variations . . . Alex would’ve welcomed the change.

After a disappointing first day, the Acolytes sprang to the racks of practice swords the next morning when they were bidden by Sir Osmund. Soon they were divided into pairs and sparring with each other. Alex did well, or at least she thought so. Many of the perfumed, beautifully-groomed Acolytes did not seem to be such good fighters, although some of the others who’d arrived bald and flea bitten like Alex were as good as, or better than, she was. One new arrival from the Western Isles fought like a cornered animal, while another from the Black Forest defeated her through pure grace and speed. Garth defeated everyone, of course; his attack when facing Alex was so fierce and sudden that the fight barely lasted a minute. He is afraid of me, thought Alex—Darrin was right! All the same she was glad to yield if it spared her nose additional punishment.

In the afternoon they fought Osmund, one at a time, as one of the boys had predicted. The first few went up smiling, expecting an easy victory against the old man, only to be thrown into the dust after barely an instant. Others were more cautions after that, but it only prolonged their defeat.

Alex approached Sir Osmund when it was her turn. The old man had fought a dozen already without breaking a sweat. When he saw her, the barest hint of a smile crept into the corners of his eyes and he shifted his stance. Alex couldn’t believe it—it was the stance of the Southern duelists, the one she’d used against Garth.

“So you were watching . . .”

He ignored her. “Are you ready yet?”

Again, she did well, or at least she thought so. Osmund forced her to yield in the end. She could feel the old knight guiding her, pushing her gently from one path of attack to the next, inviting her into various defenses, gradually speeding until Alex couldn’t keep up. It’s not a battle, thought Alex halfway through, it’s a demonstration. He’s showing them upstairs what I can do. Instead of fighting him, Alex followed the old knight, and found the tip of the practice blade at her neck just as she exhausted her knowledge.

Osmund was chuckling. “Someone finally figured it out,” he muttered. And he motioned the next Acolyte forward.

Garth went last. Alex began to worry—skilled as he was, Osmund was old and weighed half of what Garth did. The strength of the young man’s attack was ferocious, and Sir Osmund was so frail . . . she didn’t want to see Garth beat the old man. When Garth was finally called, the others crowded around to see what would happen.

Alex needn’t have worried. As soon as Garth was ready, the swords flashed. One, two, three strokes—and it was over, with Osmund’s blade at Garth’s throat. The Acolytes gasped; it was the shortest demonstration of the day. “Too predictable,” said Osmund in the silence of Garth’s defeat. The big Acolyte reddened and dropped his sword, but said nothing.

The next day they awoke to find a herd of goats in the cave, staked individually at an even distance from each other.

“What is this?” asked a few.

“We are to do battle with them,” joked others. “The battle of the goats.”

Darrin remained silent, though, and was white as a sheet. He was even more nervous than he’d been the day before. Alex didn’t take this as a good sign.

“What is it, Binder? You know what this is?”

He shook his head but didn’t reply.

Osmund appeared before they could question him further. “Each one of you pick a goat.” Alex did so, and took one near the edge of the group. The animal was dirty and thin, staring back at her with beady eyes, and it stank. It shat onto the dirt floor of the cave as they stared at each other, a thin stream of loose black pellets. “I’ll name you Garth,” said Alex to herself.

Osmund moved from one Acolyte to the next, leaving a pouch with various herbs, strips of cloth, thread and needle, and a small knife. Alex examined them, wondering what they had to do with the goat . . . her question was answered when Osmund reached the front of the cave again and drew a long jagged knife from his belt. Comprehension dawned on Alex just before the blade slashed down into the first goat’s abdomen.

“Oh, shit!” yelled the first Acolyte. “Why did you do that?” Blood spurted all over him.

“Don’t just sit there, save it!” yelled Osmund back at him. The old knight struck willy-nilly at the animals tethered around him. Soon the air was full of the sounds of screaming animals and panicked Acolytes. The air stank of blood as it soaked into the floor.

Alex’s goat got a deep slash across the flank as the jagged blade tore at its muscle. The animal screamed in pain, tearing at its tether. Alex had to wrap its torso between her legs to keep it still, but even then it was a struggle to pin it down and stop the bleeding with a bandage. She forced some bitterweed between the animal’s jaws to dull the pain and calm it before taking up the needle and thread. A kettle of water was boiling over the fire in the center of the cave—she sterilized the needle quickly before returning to the goat.

The bitterweed had done its job—the goat lay moaning with lidded eyes. It started again when she poured alcohol over the wound, but remained insensible even as the needle stitched flesh together.

By the time Osmund came back, the wound was bandaged again. The old knight peered underneath to check the stitches. Osmund nodded once, and Alex sighed with relief—until Osmund stabbed his knife in the goat’s belly and tore downward. Blood and gore spattered everywhere—the animal screamed again—Alex gasped. It was a terrible wound . . .

When Osmund returned a second time, the goat was still. Alex was covered in blood, forehead to knees, and it pooled all around her. “What did you do, Acolyte?”

“The only thing I could, with its bowls slashed open like that.” The goat’s neck was slit. Osmund frowned, but moved on.

By the end of the morning, only Darrin’s goat still lived, patched up in a half-dozen places and rendered unconscious from a potion. The Bookbinder looked worse than his patient, pale white underneath the spatters of blood, and he’d vomited at least twice off to the side. They had the rest of the day off, and roast goat that night for dinner.

As they ate that night at the long trestle tables, Sir Osmund appeared with a small wooden keg.

“What’s that?” asked someone.

“A present from the Grand Master. A bit of wine to calm your stomachs.”

There was a round of cheers from the tables, and Acolytes mobbed Sir Osmund with their cups.

Alex got a third of a cup and returned to her seat. She waited for the others to return, and Garth hoisted his cup in a toast.

“To the Grand Master!”

“The Grand Master!” they echoed, and drank.

Something troubled Alex as she brought the cup to her lips. She paused before drinking, trying to put her finger on it. McCann’s voice popped into her head, from the barge on the way to Dunheim. “Let nothing pass your lips that you didn’t prepare yourself . . . especially if it comes from a friend.” She sniffed the wine . . . it smelled fine, rich and dark. Alex pretended to drink and set the cup back on the table. As she reached for more roast goat, she knocked the cup over with her elbow.

“Oy!”

“Hey!”

Wine spilled across the table.

“Oops—I’m sorry!” Alex reached to grab the glass and bumped Darrin’s as well, spilling it everywhere.

Curses followed her down the table, but soon the incident was forgotten. Alex looked back—most of the others were drinking, but the Acolyte from the Western Isles and a few others did not.

That night many of the boys were particularly drowsy when they went to bed. Alex wondered if she’d been right to be suspicious of the gift . . . the proof would come in the morning, she decided.

It came earlier than that. Alex woke halfway through the night. She didn’t know what woke her at first, except that it was that same old tickle that McCann told her to listen to. She held herself very still, waiting and listening to the other Acolytes snoring.

There it was—a noise, the whisper of leather on stone. A sandal on the staircase, and another. There were many of them . . . Dark shapes entered the barracks, armed and armored. Their helms were shrouded in gray, lit by the light of dying embers on the hearth. Naked steel blades were in their hands.

There was still time, but only if they acted quickly. Alex leaped from the bed, shouting as she did. “Attack! Intruders! Wake! Attack!”

Garth was one of the first out of bed—he was always fast to rise. His sword flashed from his scabbard, and he moved to attack one of the intruders, clad only in his nightclothes—

—and stopped after a single step. Alex saw his eyes widen; the sword clattered from his hand. He doubled over, both hands wrapped around his stomach. There was a gurgle and a moan before a jet of warm brown liquid spurted from under his shorts. Chunks of half-digested food streamed down his legs as Garth’s bowels erupted into his underclothes. A sour stench filled the air.

I was right about the wine, Alex had enough time to think to herself. Most of the other Acolytes who had woken up were experiencing similar distress, and brown liquid ran all over the floor. The men in gray were ignoring those who were sick, attacking only those healthy enough to fight. Already there was the sound of steel ringing on steel from the Western Isle Acolyte’s cot.

Another took notice of Alex at the end of the room and started coming toward her. Alex still had no sword, and it wouldn’t do to fight with a knife . . . she thought about trying to reach another Acolyte’s sword before having a better idea.

The stick she was using as a quarterstaff lay under her cot. She knelt and snatched it up, just in time to surprise the gray knight advancing on her. A hammering blow to the side of his helm threw the man sideways into another cot, causing him to stumble, and his guard faltered as his footing did the same. Alex landed several unanswered blows before the knight regained his feet and parried her next attack.

Alex caught the knight’s counterattack on her staff, but it wasn’t the seasoned wood of a true quarterstaff. The re-purposed broom handle shattered at the knight’s blow. Alex retreated, holding two useless sticks, but soon her back was against the wall and the sword at her throat.

“Come,” said the knight. The fight was over.

Alex and the others who weren’t sick were led downstairs and out into the cavern. It was dark and cold—only the stars above marked the hole in the ceiling; the rest of the cave lay in shadow. The half-dozen of them who hadn’t drunk the wine were seated against a wooden pillar, feet out in a circle, and tied to it with several lengths of sturdy rope. The knights left them there and went back inside the barracks. Soon a bright fire was burning inside the common room.

It was cold, and they were all in bedclothes. Soon Alex was shivering, along with Darrin beside her.

“T-t-thanks,” said Darrin.

“W-w-why?” asked Alex.

“F-f-for spilling my w-w-wine.”

“N-n-no problem.”

“H-h-how d-d-did you k-k-know?” he asked her.

“D-d-didn’t. Took a g-g-guess,” answered Alex.

The islander was on her other side. They hadn’t met. She introduced herself.

“I’m A-a-alex. Who’re y-y-you?”

“Cragson Sarth,” said the boy, trying not to shiver.

“Why d-d-didn’t you d-d-drink?” she asked him.

“My f-f-father was killed by p-p-poison,” the boy replied.

“Oh.” Alex felt bad for asking.

“This is o-o-one of the t-t-tests, right?” asked Darrin.

“I d-d-dunno,” said Alex.

Alex craned her head up to look at the stars. It was still hours until morning. She didn’t want to spend the night out in the cold. The ropes around them were tight across her chest, and she couldn’t move her arms, but her legs were free. She tried to get them under her body, but she couldn’t. There was no way to stand.

“W-w-what are you doing?” asked Darrin.

“T-t-trying to escape.”

“Any luck?”

“No. Too tight,” she said.

A minute passed in silence as Alex tried other directions. None of them worked. Cragson Sarth nudged her.

“What?” she asked.

“I f-f-found a rock with my foot. It’s s-s-sharp, but I can’t use it,” said Cragson.

He pushed something with his toes to Alex’s leg. Alex could feel it—a flat stone, with one jagged edge, about as big as her palm.

“Can you reach it? You’re s-s-smaller,” asked Cragson.

“Maybe . . .” Alex strained, “. . . if you push your side out a little . . .”

Cragson took a deep breath. His chest was wide and powerful, even if he wasn’t as tall as Garth. The tension made Darrin gasp on the other side, but freed Alex’s hand enough to grasp the stone.

“Got it!” she said.

“C-c-can you cut?” asked Cragson.

“I think so . . .” by twisting her wrist, she was able to push the teeth of the stone against the ropes. She started to saw back and forth, slowly.

One of the boys on the barracks side of the group kept watch as Alex kept working. He reported that nothing was moving inside, and the gray knights were just sitting at the fire with their backs to the door.

It took most of an hour, but the rope was soft and soon the bonds were looser. Alex was the smallest, so once she wriggled free the others were able to escape, too. They slunk through the darkness, moving according to the plan Alex had hatched while working on the rope.

A minute later they slipped through the door of the barracks clutching the cold, blunt wood of the practice swords. The knights were still staring at the fire; they would be blind to the boys in the dark—foolish of them, thought Alex. She was confident that they could raise a few good bruises before being disarmed again. With a bit of luck they might even take the knights prisoner themselves—Cragson was a fierce fighter, and the others were strong as well. It would be nice to tie the knights up and leave the Grand Master a present in the morning.

They moved silently on bare feet—the knights didn’t show any sign of hearing them. Once they were in position, Alex raised her sword and exchanged a look with the others. They nodded, and then shattered the silence with a yell, charging at the knights—

And their blows crunched through straw and cloth. The knights were practice dummies made for archers, and the group of Acolytes had ambushed them with great success. They lay in pieces on the floor, bleeding straw, the real knights long gone.

“Well . . . shit,” said Cragson, staring at the carnage.

There was a sound on the stairs, but it was only Sir Osmund bearing a pile of blankets. He surveyed the scene. “Good.”

They took the blankets and slept outside, away from the stench of the other Acolytes.

(Go on to Part 40)

(Go back to Part 37)

Chapter 19

“The trials?

All Acolytes want to know about the trials, and how they will be tested. What are the trials about?

They are about skill at arms, but they are not.

They are about the techniques of healing, but they are not.

They are about cunning, they are about bravery, they are about intelligence . . .

But they are not.

Who are you, Acolyte? And what are you afraid of? The trials are my answer.”

–The Lexicon, Vorhall’s Letters to the Acolyte 129:3

–

The old knight led her out the back of the office and down a torchlit corridor. Another wooden door stood ajar here; he pulled it open and a blast of cool air struck Alex in the face.

They emerged in a huge cavern. The floor was loose dirt, smooth and dusty, and an opening high above let in the sun. The sound of wooden practice swords clattering against each other echoed in the chamber as a pair of boys sparred in the far corner. A latticed box ran high along one wall where observers could watch them, unseen, while a low barrack was half-built, half-carved into the cave wall opposite them.

Osmund led her across the floor to the barracks. Once inside, two big servant women got a hold of her. Despite Alex’s protests, they stripped her bare and dumped ice-cold water on her before attacking her body with soap and stiff-bristled brushes. Her hair was shaved off along with the lice that had accumulated in it. They left her eyebrows, at least, although Alex half-expected to lose them as well. The hopelessly soiled travel clothes went into the fireplace, and she was given a plain white tunic, breeches, and a belt.

They shooed her away into the bunkroom with her boots under one arm and her swordbelt under the other. She fumbled with the belt—it took some time to buckle around her waist again, with her stiff left hand. The scrubbing left her scars red and seeping blood again. When she looked up again, other Acolytes had gathered around.

“Who’s the new guy?”

“It’s a she, idiot.”

“She looks young.”

“What happened to her hand?”

There were nearly twenty boys and a half dozen girls, all bald and in white tunics. “I’m Alex,” she said, startled by the group’s focus on her. McCann was right; they were all older, taller, and more muscular than her. “Alex, from Goodhollow.”

“Michael, of Wroth.” A pale boy with thick black eyebrows.

“Ellsworth Tocklsey.” A stout figure with a pockmarked face.

“Karl McKribbens, of the Emerald Hills,” said a tall figure with dirt smeared on his face. A dozen more introductions followed; Alex soon lost track of them all.

“What’s all this? Another new one?” A loud, brash voice filled the barrack. The others moved aside for a hulking young man. His chest was wide and his face sported a full beard. The young man outweighed Alex by at least fifty pounds, but he moved with an easy, fluid, dangerous grace. His eyes were brown and quick.

“Alex, of Goodhollow.” Alex held out her hand.

The young man didn’t return her gesture. “Who’re your sponsors?”

“What?” she asked.

“Your sponsors! The knights who sponsored you for the trials?” He made an impatient gesture. “And where’s your sword?”

Alex answered the second question first. “I lost it in an accident—the same place I got this.” She held out her burned hand, hoping they would be impressed.

They were, but not in the way she hoped. Those who hadn’t seen it yet drew back in disgust, while the bearded giant didn’t move. “And your sponsors?”

“I rode south with Knight-Sergeant Tobias McCann.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and then he threw back his head in laughter. The other boys joined him; Alex frowned, uncomprehending the source of their sudden scorn.

“What? What is it?”

“Tobias McCann? What is this, a joke? He’s a disgrace!” The bearded young man made a show of wiping his eyes. “The Grand Master keeps him as far from the citadel as possible just so they don’t have to look at him, the worthless dog!”

“He’s not a dog!” protested Alex.

More laughter. “He’s an oathbreaker!”

“He saved my life!” said Alex.

“And I can see why you needed it—no sword, and missing half a hand! I don’t know why Osmund even let you in in the first place.” The bearded young man spat once on the floor. “That’s what Garth of Tunbridge thinks of oathbreakers.” He spat again. “And that’s how much I’ll have to do with you. Any friend of mine had better do the same.”

Alex felt her anger growing as she stood surrounded by scorn and laughter. Garth of Tunridge was far bigger than her, but so was Toro back in the hold of the baron’s flagship. Toro was dead now.

“Tobias McCann is no oathbreaker, and anyone who says otherwise is a damn liar!” The room quieted.

“Are you challenging my honor, Alex Red-Hand? Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” Garth smiled and laughed once.

“You could be the son of the devil himself for all I care!” Alex had heard McCann use this particular oath before to great effect, and was not disappointed. Garth’s face reddened at once.

“Of course you’d have a dirty mouth, sponsored by an oathbreaker. Come outside and I’ll clean it out for you,” he said.

The other Acolytes roared their approval. Soon the group was outside on the cavern floor, formed up in a circle around the pair.

Alex reached for a wooden practice sword on the rack next to the barracks. “No, no, no, Alex Red-Hand. You challenge my honor? We use real steel,” taunted Garth. “That is, if anyone will loan you one.” The group laughed.

Another boy brought Garth his sword belt. It was made of fine worked leather, soft and wide. The buckle was silver, and the scabbard wrapped in inlaid silver thread. Alex looked at her own scabbard, stained with salt and crusted with swamp mud, the belt halfway worn through and notched. It was not much of a comparison.

Garth drew his sword. It was a flat blade with a single fuller, sharp and deadly. The hilt was wrapped in more soft black leather and studded with a pair of small jewels. She envied it even as she loathed the one holding it—it was a match for Headmaster Barrius’s blade back in Goodhollow.

“Will no one lend her a weapon?” Garth’s voice was mocking, laughing at her.

Alex looked around the circle. No one moved. Blades were in plentiful supply, but there were none for her.

“I will.” Another boy stood forward. He was tall, but thin, and had the look of someone grown a great height in a short amount of time. His eyes were large and expressive, dominating his face. He held the hilt of his sword out to Alex. “Here, take mine.”

She gave him a look of immense gratitude as she drew the sword. It was light, and a bit shorter than Garth’s, but solid and well-made. She swung it once or twice—the feel was different than her own had been, but her own sword was lying at the bottom of the river. It would have to do.

Garth frowned, but came forward to meet her. “All right, you oathbreaker’s whelp, are you ready?” He brought his blade up into a front guard.

“Yes.” Alex mimicked him.

“Then come!”

It had been weeks since Alex had last handled a sword. She knew immediately that she was over-matched; Garth swatted aside her initial attack without a second thought and exploded with his own assault as soon as their blades touched. He was strong and fast, with no weaknesses in his technique—it was all Alex could do to keep Garth’s blade from her throat. Steel flashed and rang as they circled.

After a few minutes they paused. Alex’s chest was heaving, her arms aching from repelling the massive strength of Garth’s attacks. A line of fire ran down Alex’s forearm; she looked down to see a long shallow cut bleeding all over her fresh tunic. Garth was smiling, nodding to the crowd as they cheered him.

He’s toying with me, realized Alex. He’s toying with me, and this next attack will end it. I can’t win this way. And she remembered the fight on the deck of the Lysia.

Alex and McCann had talked about the fight with the Southerner for hours afterward, lying between decks on the baron’s flagship. McCann remembered every step of the duel and had walked Alex through it until she remembered it too. They’d talked about the Southerner’s strange stance, the ways his technique differed from the Curate tradition, and what was worth learning from it.

Alex shifted her posture, moving one foot back and taking the high stance of the Southern duelists. Garth noticed, although the others didn’t—they were still laughing and catcalling—and Alex saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

He’s never seen this before, thought Alex. “Now!” said McCann’s voice in her head. “Before he has a chance to think!”

They met again in the center. This time, her attacks had purchase—Garth was caught off-balance more than once as Alex appeared in places he didn’t expect. The bearded young man was still too large and fast for her to push back, but she wasn’t getting chased around the circle any more, either. His technique is flawless, thought Alex, but inflexible.

But Alex’s grasp of the strange Southern style was not as thorough as she’d hoped. When her foot slipped in the dirt—

There was a flash, and a twist, and Alex’s borrowed sword tumbled away. A huge hand grabbed her neck and smashed her face into the ground. The point of a sword pricked her neck.

“Yield!”

“I . . . yield . . .” mumbled Alex into the dirt.

Garth’s face appeared next to hers. “Good. You know your place now, Alex No-Sword. And this is for that funny business at the end.” His face withdrew, and before Alex could move a massive boot smashed into the back of her head. There was a flash, a crunch, and blood began to gush into the dirt.

The others roared their approval and left Alex lying on the ground. A few spat on her as they went. She waited until the voices drifted away before hauling herself up on her elbows.

One boy remained. He sat on his haunches, watching Alex from a few feet away. It was the boy who had loaned Alex his sword.

“Danks for da sworb,” said Alex.

“Here, let me see your nose,” said the boy. He took Alex’s face in both hands—it was a strong grip.

“Wat bar you doeng?”

“Clench your teeth. This might hurt.”

Alex did. The boy grabbed her nose and popped it back into center.

“Argh!” Alex grunted.

“There. It should heal all right now. Sorry about the pain—there’s not much for it, but the sooner you set it the less it hurts.”

“Thanks.” Alex spat the blood from her mouth. “Now I owe you two favors.”

“Don’t worry about it.” The boy helped her to his feet. “I’m Darrin Leaf of Twinbridge, but they call me The Bookbinder. Binder, for short.”

“And do you think Tobias McCann is an oathbreaker, too?”

Binder shrugged. “I don’t much care, since I’m a bastard myself. Born of Garth’s uncle and a whore. There’s not much they can call me that isn’t true.”

Alex stared at him. “Garth’s uncle?”

“Lord Garin’s younger brother, Guy. Formerly of Westin, though he’s been dispossessed, and not just for whoring.”

Alex shook her head as they walked back to the barracks. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re a Northerner, right? Down here, it’s more complicated. You’ll get used to it. For now, just know that Garth has to cut me some slack because I’m of his blood.”

“Why don’t you challenge him?”

“Why do they call me The Bookbinder?” Binder shook his head. “I’m no knight; it will be the librarians for me, that’s for sure. The trials are mostly a formality.”

“The trials . . .” Alex spat up another gob of blood. “How long until . . . ?”

“Soon. Rumor has it that we’ll start when the Grand Master returns. He usually watches . . .” Binder gestured up to the grated booth, “. . . although who knows—maybe he’s watching right now, and the trials have already started.”

Alex choked out a laugh. “I’m probably not doing so well, then.”

“You did better than most. I think you scared him—he hasn’t broken anyone else’s nose.”

Alex paused, then shook her head again as they neared the barracks. “This is not what I expected. This is not how I wanted it to be.”

Binder shrugged. “Me neither.”

(Go on to Part 39)

(Go back to Part 36)

Chapter 18

“The greatest threat to the living is the living.

The dead are implacable. Their minds are made up. They will act as they will.

But the living may not choose to survive.”

–The Lexicon, Mastersbook 34:12

–

The winds were good and two days carried them across the strait. Another pillar, the twin of Falcon’s Watch, rose on the headland here. McCann told Alex its name; Kingspillar.

There were many more ships on this side of the strait. Two coasters beat around Kingspillar as they passed by, while a huge three-masted trader stood further out to sea. A group of fishing boats had their nets cast on the Gulf of Rothos side of the cape, but the Olive Bough soon left them behind.

The headlands eroded quickly on this side of the strait, soon giving way to rolling hills wrapped in oak and beech trees. The leaves were turning and the harvest was in—they took on crates of apples and oranges along with casks of blackberry cordial, huge wheels of mild cheese, and tobacco, dried and packed. Sacks and sacks of peanuts were everywhere, but little cotton. “Boll weevil” was the story at village after village.

These were no simple trading posts, but proper villages with schools and churches. Curate chapter houses were not uncommon, but more usual were small stone keeps flying a pair of flags. The top was always the same—green on bottom, black on top, separated by a jagged line—while the bottom flag differed.

“Minor Knights, sworn to House Elaine. They raise the house’s flag over their own, and well they should. House Elaine has kept the peace here for a hundred years. There are grown men here who have never seen the zombii, or heard a sword drawn in anger.”

They spent three days anchored in the shadow of Ellenbern, a great city of brown timber buildings that sat on the edge of Bluefish Bay. Overlooking the city was a sprawling castle that flew the standard of House Elaine. “Lord Franklund rules there, head of House Elaine and Bern of the Black Forest,” explained McCann. “He’s friendly enough to the Curate . . . usually.”

From Ellenbern they sailed Northwest across Bluefish bay to the spit. “It won’t be long now,” said McCann. “We’ll be at Antioch tomorrow if the wind holds.”

The next morning Alex rose early. She came on deck at first light, bundled in a thick blanket. Mist lay heavy on the ocean, although the wind was still up and gray vapor was streaming through the rigging. The taut black lines dripped with moisture. Captain Eskar was on deck, too, along with most of the crew. McCann alone was absent—he’d been more sullen than usual since passing the strait.

The mist paled, and a brilliant white disk appeared behind them as the sun began to burn off the morning vapor. A yellow point of light rose in the darkness ahead of them as if to complement it, flashing once and then disappearing. A minute later it flashed again. Captain Eskar ordered a slight course correction. Alex’s heart jumped in her chest as she realized she’d just caught her first glimpse of the Citadel of Antioch.

As the fog continued to thin, the sun caught the tip of Isla Sancta’s peaked mountain. It dominated the island, sheer on the south side that faced them, but less severe to the north where a ridge stretched away for miles. A long stair on the east face led up to a garrison and a tower—the Flame Tower, where a flame was always burning to guide ships through the night.

All of this Alex had read before a hundred times in Goodhollow. To see it now, though, with her own eyes . . . it took her breath away.

The clouds continued to thin, and Alex shed her blanket as the sun fell on the deck. Masts and sails appeared all around them—coasters, traders, fishing boats, whalers from the ocean to the west, mail ships with raked masts and slim hulls, ponderous long distance merchantmen from the east—there were hundreds of ships, all passing through the narrows between the mainland and the Isla Sancta.

A squat fortress sat at the southern tip of the island, overlooking the narrows. Behind it, separated by a moat and narrow drawbridge, was the city of Antioch. Buildings, made of the same gray stone of the mountain’s exposed flank, melted into the grasping tendrils of fog that were still clinging to land. Blue woodsmoke rose over the city in a different type of haze as cook fires and kilns came to life for the day’s work.

The taller buildings were plastered brilliant white and lined the long wide street that cut straight north from the harbor fortress. It was crossed at right angles two-thirds of the way up by another wide street at the Founder’s Square. The west branch of this street ended at the docks, Alex knew, while the east ended at the Credo cathedral on its stony bluff. The cathedral’s dome was one of the tallest buildings in the city.

But the citadel was taller. A gaping oval gate stood at the top of the long road, staring down at the smaller fortress across the length of the city. Angular walls, punctuated with squat towers, ringed the citadel, sloped sharply back and polished smooth. Another ring of walls, taller and more sheer, ran just behind the outer layer. Both were anchored against the sheer rock face of Isla Sancta’s peak and formed a three-quarters circle. Inside was a maze of stone buildings, half cut into the stone behind them and connected with arched bridges. The footing for the flame tower ran down through it all, clinging to the cliff face as it widened.

An hour after daybreak, McCann was still nowhere to be seen. She found him below in the hold, propped against a cask of cordial with his sword naked in his lap. A whetstone sang in his hand as he sharpened the blade.

“We can see the citadel; Captain Eskar says we’ll be alongside in an hour,” she told him.

McCann grunted and continued sharpening his sword.

“We . . . won’t be needing swords, will we?” asked Alex.

McCann grunted again. “Unfortunately not.”

–

McCann was down the gangway as soon as the Olive Bough was warped into the pier. He didn’t even cast a glance up at the citadel looming in the distance, but bulled his way into the crowd. Alex had to run after him to keep up.

Their first stop was at a stable near the docks. Here they found the horses, just as Captain Tyrus had promised. The one-eyed, one-legged innkeeper who owned the stable had a voice like rusted chain being dragged over broken stones. “I thought to meself, that Tobias has finally got hisself et up by the zombii, an’ now I’ll never see the coin he owes me fer keeping ‘is horses. An’ of course he got two of them, somehow, so as they’d eat twice as much of poor Lothar’s grain . . .”

“Lothar, I’ll be back with silver once I visit the citadel, just write the damn bill already!” McCann scowled at him.

Lothar smiled, revealing that his luck at keeping his teeth was not much better than his luck with keeping his limbs. “Ah, I shoulda known you’d be too thin an’ gristly for ’em, Sergeant, an’ that they’d spit you right back up. No coin, either—well, no harm there. The Seneschel’s not like to be happy ta see ya even if you weren’t bringin’ ‘im unpaid bills.”

“Aye, but don’t you be writing any grain on that bill,” said McCann, feeling his horse’s ribs. “These horses have had precious little of that, by my eye.”

“Tha’s not Lothar’s fault, it’s those long sea voyages, bad for the digestion, you know?”

McCann collected the bill and went to leave, but Alex was still rooting through Brutus’s saddlebags. She couldn’t find Dalia’s journal.

“Acolyte! Let’s go!”

“I . . . uh, need my papers of recommendation from the headmaster.” Alex had found them already, but Dalia’s journal was gone. Everything else was still there—except for the journal. Alex didn’t know what to think of this.

“Well, hurry up!” McCann was growing impatient. Finally, Alex gave up. The big horse whinnied when she went to leave. “I’ll be back soon, boy,” she rubbed his nose once, distracted. Where could the journal have gone?

McCann jammed the receipt into his pocket. Alex tagged along behind him as the sergeant stormed off down the street.

Soon they were at the citadel’s gate, waiting in line for the sentry. McCann gave their names to the guard. “Knight-Sergeant Tobias McCann, traveling from Tyre with dispatches for the Grand Master. Acolyte Alexis, to take the precepts.”

“The Grand Master’s been away for a month. The council rules in his stead, but you’ll have to go through the Chapter Master,” said the sentry.

“Desdemona. Wonderful.” McCann swore under his breath. “Where can I find her?”

“The Island Tower.” The guard waved them through.

Alex and McCann passed under the thick outer wall, turned left, and followed the path a few hundred feet before reached the inner gate. Here they were waved through again into the inner plaza of the citadel.

The Island Tower was not actually an island. It was named because all affairs of the Isla Sancta chapter were managed from within. The blocky storehouses and offices of the Island Tower took up one entire side the citadel’s main square. McCann and Alex passed under its arched front into an interior courtyard, where he gave their names and again and was asked to sit down. They took a seat on a bench.

As they sat, Alex started to notice the veiled stares of passersby. A steady stream of knights, captains, and other Curate irregulars were flowing through the courtyard between the carefully trimmed shrubbery and the simple marble fountain. Most were clad in immaculate white tunics emblazoned with the single flame cut in brilliant red; those in armor were clad in shining oiled mail. Learned brothers, librarians, and chaplains passed by as well, some with gold chains hanging from their necks. Faces were scrubbed clean, beards were neatly trimmed, and rose petals were scattered around the base of the fountain to give off a pleasant smell.

Alex felt very out of place, sitting there filthy in her faded brown and gray, smelling of tar, sweat, and the sea. She didn’t even have a sword—the belt hung around her waist, empty scabbard rattling against her knees as she walked, reminding her with every step of the blade rusting in the river near the Weeping Tree. By comparison, a passing knight’s sword was decorated with a huge ruby set into the pommel.

At least McCann was armed, thought Alex; all she had was a disgusting withered hand and a useless scabbard. The sergeant was in his usual slouch; exaggerated a bit, Alex thought, although it could have been the ramrod-straight postures of everyone else around them that made it look that way.

They were definitely attracting stares; she was more and more sure of it each moment. Most people had the courtesy to pretend not to see them. A few hid smiles behind their hands; one knight laughed out loud. Alex’s stomach began to sink. This was not how she’d imagined arriving in Antioch.

Their names were called. “Knight-Sergeant McCann and Acolyte.” McCann’s name drew a few whispers from the other men waiting in the courtyard, but they were through the doorway soon enough and out of earshot. McCann knew the way—he led them up three levels of a wide spiral staircase, crossed a landing, walked down a long corridor, and stopped in front of an oaken door. A footman in a plain white tunic, iron mail, and a half-helm moved his spear aside to let them pass.

Alex was reminded of Headmaster Barrius’s office the moment she stepped through the door. Large arched windows looked out over the courtyard below, and a desk sat in front of them. The Chapter Master’s office was three times the size of the Barrius’s, though, and the bookshelves were lined with neat leather-bound volumes instead of practice swords and battered helmets. Two clerks scribbled away at their own desks in the corner. The only swords in the room were mounted on pegs, high out of reach, and were heavily gilded.

A woman sat at the desk writing a letter. Her robes were thick and lined with black fur. A red flame lined in gold pinned them together—the sigil of the Isla Sancta. She had thick black eyebrows on a long, thin face, and gave the impression of a small person wearing large clothes.

“McCann.” The voice was smooth, careful, and not without beauty.

“Desdemona,” he said.

“Chapter Master Artunian to you, Knight-Sergeant,” she said. “Tell me, how long has it been? Six months? Eight?”

“Near enough,” he replied.

“And yet never quite long enough to get the smell out of my office,” she said.

“Some things smell worse than a soldier in the field. It’s my pleasure to remind you of that,” replied McCann.

They glared at each other.

“So, Sergeant,” the Chapter Master steepled her fingers. “What outlandish story can you bring me this time? I assume you have a good reason for being,” she made a show of checking her calendar, “. . . what, three months late?”

“Sinclair. He blocked the passes to the Curate,” said McCann.

“We know. It really took you three months to get around?”

“He’s dead.”

Desdemona blinked as surprise replaced her disdain. “Dead? Are you sure?”

McCann began to tell the story. After a few sentences, the Chapter Master waved to one of her clerks, who began to take down McCann’s account on paper. She didn’t interrupt, waiting until the sergeant had finished before saying anything.

There was a long silence—Desdemona ran her tongue under her upper lip once time, slowly. “And so your only witness to any of this is a one-armed Acolyte?”

“It’s only a hand, she didn’t lose the whole arm. And she’s still got her letter of recommendation,” said McCann.

Alex pulled the oilcloth packet from where it was stashed in her pocket. It was battered and worn, but Barrius’s seal was still visible.

“And I’ve got dispatches from Mudfort, and a half-dozen chapter houses between there and Ellenbern.” McCann added another few packets, forming a loose grimy pile on Artunian’s desk. The Chapter Master’s lip curled as crusted dirt crumbled from the pages.

“Well.” She tapped her steepled fingers together. “I’ll see that your story reaches the Grand Master’s desk . . . fanciful as it may be. He’s due back any day now. Until then,” she smiled, “I’m sure there’s some sentry duty I can find for you.”

“You’re too kind.” McCann’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Desdemona Artunian waved a hand and their interview was over. McCann led them outside, unrolling the orders that Desdemona’s clerk had scribbled for him. “Of course. Midnight watch. Seaward wall. That’ll be nice and chilly.” He cursed under his breath again, without conviction. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” asked Alex.

“I need to drop you off at the Acolytes’ Tower. There you’ll stay until the trials. Then I need to see the Seneschel—”

“What about Brutus?”

“—if you’d let me finish, I’d explain that I need to see the Seneschel about stable space for the horses. Brutus will be taken care of until the trials.”

“Oh,” said Alex, somewhat abashed.

They followed a narrow street off the plaza, and then took a set of steps down into the roots of the mountain. In a dim alcove McCann rapped against a wooden door. It opened and they were brought inside a narrow room cut from the living rock and lit with torches.

A sleepy man sat at the desk inside. He wore the blue robes of an apprentice scribe and was nodding over a fat ledger. McCann roused him by kicking a table leg.

“Oy! You! Go tell Osmund I’ve got another one for him; unless he’s finally died, that is.”

“Ha! You should be so lucky, Tobias.” An old knight, short, bald, and spotted, appeared from the back room. “I’m like to outlive all of you. It’s been awhile since you brought me a fresh one.”

“More than a year. They only let me stay a day last time . . . not that I was complaining. Desdemona will probably have me a bit longer this time, just to remind me which part of my neck her boot sits on.”

“Hrmph.” The knight McCann called Osmund turned to Alex. “And who are you?”

“Alexis, sir, of Goodhollow, North of Dunheim.”

“Hrmph.” He looked her over. “Too young, too short, too skinny, too scared. What happened to her hand?”

“Accident,” said McCann.

“Hrmph. She hasn’t even got a sword.” He sniffed once. “By God, Tobias, she even smells like you.”

“She’ll be fine. Write her in already, I’ve got business to attend to.”

The scribe took down Alex’s name and home chapter in his book. McCann clapped a hand on her back once, and then with a nod to Sir Osmund he was gone. The old man turned to Alex.

“All right, Acolyte Alexis-Goodhollow-North-of-Dunheim. Welcome to the cave.”

(Go on to Part 38)

(Go back to Part 35)

Captain Eskar was a tall, thin rail of a man from the West Isles. His hair was gray and bristly as a scrub brush, and he had forearms like leather wrapped over iron. The captain had the unnerving habit of standing absolutely still when listening to a conversation or watching his orders carried out on deck. Only his eyes moved when he stood like this, one hand on the opposite elbow and the other raised to the stubble on his chin.

He held that look a long time after they showed him the supplies on the raft. “Will this get us to Antioch?” asked McCann.

Captain Eskar’s eyes darted from crate to cask and back again, silently tallying. Finally he gave a curt nod and a single syllable in reply. “Yes.”

Fortunately the crew of the Olive Bough were more talkative than their captain. She’d been named by a more fanciful man, but its owners had been bankrupted by the West Isle Guilds and the ship had been sold at auction. Eskar emerged from the crowd and bought her in one bid, paid cash, and most of the crew had come with the ship. The taciturn captain had commented on her name only once, saying “If she can keep the sea, she can keep her name.”

And she did keep the sea. They found out less than a week later, as a terrible storm caught them off the coast. The Olive Bough spent a desperate day and a half clawing her way away from a lee shore and a line of jagged rocks, black and menacing through the wind and rain. The storm broke as quickly as it had come, and they spent another day anchored behind a nearby headland repairing the damage before continuing down the coast.

The Olive Bough stopped at a dozen small trading posts as they followed the coast west, but none of them were as small and poor as Mudfort. Most of them sat on small creeks or rivers where they emptied into the ocean. Eskar exchanged food and tools for boxes of rarities found only in the jungle. They shipped three huge chests of strange orange powder, dozens of rolls of gummy tree bark, and wax rolled up into long sheets and wrapped in canvas. One large trading post (a complex complete with a sprawling Curate chapter house and library), put aboard a collection of preserved lizards in jars for the librarians at Antioch.

Eventually the land began to rise and the trading posts disappeared. Soon a line of rough, broken cliffs stared back at them along the coastline, backed by tall hills. “The Eastreach Cape,” explained McCann. “On the other side lies the Gulf of Rothos. Once we pass Falcon’s Watch we’ll be in the straits.”

Falcon’s Watch reared its head the next day. A towering natural pillar rose from the surrounding hills, the only remnant of the heart of a great mountain. Waves smashed the black rocks at its base, and seagulls whirled from nests on its pockmarked face. It was the end of the Eastreach Cape, and the Olive Bough left it astern as they stood out to sea. By nightfall it had disappeared.

The moon was full and bright that night, lighting the ocean as if it was day. A long silver finger reached out from the horizon to brush against the bow of the Olive Bough. Alex stayed on deck, trying to wrap her head around the vast expanse of water around them in every direction.

It was chilly on the ocean in autumn, even this far south, and so Alex was glad when McCann appeared on deck with a borrowed blanket. A single man stood watch at the wheel, reading the binnacle by the light of the moon, but otherwise they were alone with the sound of wind and waves.

“How’s your hand?” asked McCann after a time.

“Better. It doesn’t bleed as much. Still stiff.”

“It always will be.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

Silence. McCann broke it again.

“When we reach Antioch . . . we’ll have to go our own ways.”

“I thought so. What’s going to happen?” she asked him.

“They will want to talk to us about Sinclair. But after that, you’ll have to enter the trials to take the precepts, and I will have other duties,” he told her.

“What are the trials like?” asked Alex.

“The things you’d expect. Swordplay. Grappling. Medicine, woodcraft. And there are some things you wouldn’t think of.”

“Like what?” she asked.

McCann shook his head. “You’ll find out. But you should know that you’ll be competing with Acolytes older and stronger than you. You’ll have to be fast and smart.”

“It can’t be any worse than the swamp,” she said.

McCann grunted. “Not everything is swords and danger, Alex. There are other tests.”

“You’ve been teaching me the old language. And I know some of the Southern tongue,” said Alex.

“Not just languages. Other things,” he added.

“Well, I’ll figure it out,” she said.

“Yes, you will.” McCann shifted into his familiar careless slump, back against a hatch cover. “You have a good chance of passing.”

Alex didn’t know what to say. It was the first words of encouragement that Sergeant McCann had ever given her. “Uh . . . thanks.”

Silence.

“Sergeant?” she asked.
“Mmm?”

“What happens if I fail?”

“No one fails. You mean if you don’t make knight?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

“Then the Curate will find some other job for you. Footmen, archers, cooks, librarians, smiths . . . all have a place within the Curate.”

“I don’t want to be a cook,” said Alex.

“No one can fight on an empty stomach,” replied McCann.

Silence again.

“Sergeant?” asked Alex.

“. . . Aye?” McCann was getting drowsy.

“Were you really a testing-master at Antioch?”

A long silence followed Alex’s question. She began to think that McCann had fallen asleep, when—

“Yes.”

“But aren’t testing-masters—” she started to ask.

“They’re always at least field lieutenants.”

“But now you’re only a—”

“—a knight-sergeant,” he cut her off.

“Why?”

“I broke my vows.”

Alex didn’t know what to say to this. She tried to imagine McCann breaking his vows—the scruffy, harsh, hard-as-iron knight-sergeant.

“The scars on your back . . .”

“The Grand Master was merciful. I have been allowed to serve in my own way.”

He had little respect for etiquette, that was certain, but no one was flayed for profanity. He drank wine sometimes, too, but most knights broke that rule from time to time. Sleeping with prostitutes could get a knight flayed, but McCann showed no interest in any of the women they’d seen on the road.

Alex opened her mouth to ask how McCann had lost his rank, but as she did the sergeant broke out into a long, loud snore. She took the hint.

(Go on to Part 37)

(Go back to Part 34)

Chapter 17

“A knight’s life is sworn to the Curate, and the Grand Master is the Curate’s voice.

He shall obey the master, under pain of death.”

–The Lexicon, Knightsbook 1:3

–

One afternoon while McCann was napping, Alex spotted something. It was a narrow plume of smoke, barely a gray wisp against the wide sky, and it was just around the bend. She woke McCann.

“Sergeant! There’s smoke ahead!”

McCann was beside her in an instant. “There is. Come on, let’s get the raft to shore.”

With both poles they wrestled the raft to the proper side of the river. As they rounded the bend, a small stockade became visible. A patch of swampland, higher than the rest, had been cleared around it, and the half-hearted shoots of a vegetable garden rose from the bank. The stockade had a canvas roof, much patched, and smoke crept from a triangular hole cut in the roof.

Two small brown-skinned figures were working the garden. When they spotted the raft, they dropped their tools and began talking quickly in a strange language. One ran into the stockade, while the other waded out into the shallows toward them. He had his hands out, reaching out to them.

“Toss him a rope, will you?” said McCann.

Alex threw a long rope to the man. He caught it and turned, dashing through the shallows to a huge tree that stood alone, just away from the bank. He passed the rope around its trunk, and when the rope caught, the raft swung around and buried its nose in the sandy bank downstream of the stockade.

“Well, come on then. Let’s see who’s here. Hopefully someone speaks Anglic.” McCann hopped into the water, and Alex followed.

The man who tied the rope came out into the water to meet them. He was old and stooped, but quick and wiry. His chest was bare, and thin brown legs jutted out from under a tattered sarong. He spoke quickly in a language that Alex didn’t recognize, not seeming to care much whether they understood or not.

He pointed back to the stockade. McCann shrugged, and they followed him up onto land.

The stockade was old and not quite square. The gaps between crooked swamp tree trunks were filled with mud and wattle. Patches of lighter plaster showed where repairs had been made. They ducked through a low doorway and went inside.

The stockade was divided into two rooms by a curtain of stained canvas. Smoke stung Alex’s eyes; a fire burned on one side, and a small iron pot hung over it. Two more small brown men sat on faded mats, staring at the newcomers with curiosity and chatting in the same strange language. Stacks of meal and salted fish sat in the corner.

The curtain was pulled aside, and another man stepped through to greet them. At first he was indistinguishable from the others. Slowly Alex realized that he similar facial features to McCann’s, and was brown-skinned only because of the incredible layer of grime that covered his body. His hair was twice as long as hers, and he wore a huge unruly beard. Passable Anglic came from his mouth as he spoke.

“More visitors, eh? I’m not expecting no one for at least two more weeks. I’m Cain.”

“You’re a Northerner!” blurted Alex before she could stop herself.

The man grinned, showing a mouthful of black teeth. “True enough, though it’s been thirty years since I’ve seen the trees in autumn. Who’re you?”

“I’m Tobias, and this is my daughter, Alex,” answered McCann.

“Ah, names right out of the Lexicon. Just like mine own, although mine’s a fair bit less flattering. Then again, who but the devil’s own son could live out here?” He laughed a thick wheezing gallop of a laugh. Alex and McCann exchanged a glance. “Old Tom tells me you come from upriver. Didn’t know much folk lived up there . . . though you’re our second visitor this week from that direction.”

“Really?” McCann furrowed his brow. “Who was the first?”

“He didn’t give me much of an explanation, seeing as he was floating face down and half-eaten by the fishes. Gave me a nice scarf, though,” and Cain hooked a thumb in his green-and-yellow sash.

“You took his clothes?” asked Alex, disgusted.

“He didn’t have much need of ’em, now, did he? Heh!” Cain laughed again. “Strange place to find the green and yellow, though . . .” he looked at McCann.

The sergeant ignored the unspoken question. “What about the body?”

“Burned it. It was a little queer . . . a little too queer for my liking. And I sees a lotta queer things in the swamp.” Alex felt the man’s eyes move to her hand, and she hid it behind her back.

“I imagine it was.” McCann changed the subject. “How far from the ocean are we?”

Cain raised his eyebrows. “By raft? Five, six days maybe.”

“Will we find anything there? Ships?”

“A trading post, there is. They got ships in often enough, if you’re looking for passage.” He looked from one to the other. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention Cain’s little house out here in the swamp, though.”

McCann glanced at the long, oiled spears leaning against the far wall. “Why, are you hunting something?”

Cain laughed. “The sooner you forget about me, the sooner I forget about an old soldier and a girl with a burned hand.”

They were back on the river an hour later. “Is he a poacher?” asked Alex.

“Dunno. Whatever he’s hunting, though, he doesn’t want the locals to know about it.”

The next few days passed as usual. When they saw smoke again, it was more plentiful. Soon they were passing between acres of rice paddies instead of tangled swamp brush. Stooped brown backs shone with sweat as men and women worked in the fields. Most people ignored them or fled as they approached.

The trading post was barely that. A single mud street ran down to the dock from a stout timber fort. The fort sat on a low hill that was also the highest visible point. A pair of warehouses, a ramshackle inn, and a scattering of outbuildings finished the settlement, along with a circle of mud and rush huts just upstream.

The only thing made of stone in the entire trading post was a long breakwater that reached out into the bay. Beyond lay the ocean, wide and blue. Whitecaps broke themselves again and again on the rough stone blocks.

“That looks like Curate work,” said McCann. Sure enough, the red flame flew above the fort.

They got a few strange looks from the locals as they pushed their raft of rough jungle logs onto the sandbar near the inn. A few fat old men sat watching them in the shade of the inn’s porch, but no one approached or said anything.

“I’m going to go up to the fort,” said McCann. “You stay here and guard the raft.”

“With what?”

McCann tossed her the tent pole she’d been using for practice and splashed off through the shallows.

A small coaster rode at anchor in the harbor. It had one mast and was painted black with neat green trim. Sailors were at work on board, lowering casks out into a longboat tied alongside. Alex watched their labor; when the boat was full, the sailors leapt down into it and began pulling at the oars. They brought the boat to land, running it onto the beach next to her. A few gave Alex curious glances, but they were too busy with their work to pay her much attention. Soon the casks were rolled up into the shade of the warehouse. The fat old men on the porch watched it all, motionless.

McCann reappeared, coming back down the path from the fort with another man. The stranger wore a sword on his belt, and his tunic showed a tattered and faded red flame. He wore leather breeches and mismatched sandals. They waded out to the raft and clambered aboard.

“Acolyte, this is Sir Arsveldt.”

Alex bowed her head. “Sir.”

Arsveldt scrutinized her. “An Acolyte, eh?”

“Yes, sir.” Alex became suddenly self-conscious of her decrepit clothing and shaggy, matted hair, even though the knight in front of her looked little better.

“Tell me, then, Acolyte—how many cures are there for the plague?”

“Just one, the flame.”

“Hmph.” Arsveldt turned back to McCann. “you two may well be Curates after all, even if you’re the sorriest pair I’ve seen in quite some time . . . if you’ll excuse me for saying, sir,” he added. Alex remembered that McCann was technically a knight-sergeant and outranked Arsveldt, even if the knight in sandals was in command of the fort.

“Don’t bother with the ‘sir,’” said McCann.

Arsveldt shrugged. “It’s no matter either way—I’ve no extra coin for you here, even if you were the Grand Master himself. What you have, though, is more valuable than that.” He gestured to the provisions on the raft. “Several hundred pounds of salt pork? Do you think? And as much hardtack?”

“Aye. I figure as much,” said McCann.

“Well, the master of the Olive Bough will be happy enough to take you aboard for half of that. He was looking to provision here, but the harvest has been poor. Doesn’t like rice, anyway; I’ll talk to him.”

“Is he headed west?” asked McCann.

“Where else? Not upriver, that’s for sure.”

“If he’ll want half, you’ll take the other half?” asked McCann.

“If you’ll not be needing it, the army of Mudfort would appreciate a change from roast lizard,” replied Arsveldt.

“The army of . . .?” asked Alex.

“We’re a fearsome fighting force, to be sure. Didn’t you notice our citadel, on yonder mountain?” He pointed to the squat wooden palisade. “Mudfort, a humble name for a humble dwelling. The army numbers five, myself and four footmen. The only Anglic-speaking folk for a hundred miles! In the field, I’m known as General Arsveldt, and once I requisition your vessel,” he pointed to the raft, “I suppose I’ll be Admiral Arsveldt as well.”

Alex laughed. She liked the Curate in sandals. “Do you fight many battles, General?”

“Not many. The occasional zombii wanders in from the swamp. Once we had a pair of them—a great host, as it were.”

Alex laughed again, but McCann didn’t. “That may change. Has anything strange been found in the river lately?” he asked the knight.

Arsveldt shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of, although . . .” he paused, “. . . we did have a great big ugly fish a few days ago. Black, full of spines, and fierce. Killed a boy swimming in the river. Never seen anything like it.”

“Did you kill it?” asked McCann. His hand strayed to his sword hilt.

“Speared it myself. It’s on the wall in the inn—a trophy,” answered Arsveldt.

“Best you burn it, and anything else odd you find in the river,” McCann told the knight.

Arsveldt looked serious now as well. “Really?”

“There is only one Cure.”

“. . . I’ll do it myself.” He looked at them again, and noticed Alex’s hand. “Does this have to do with your business upstream?”

“That’s for the Grand Master’s ears alone,” replied McCann.

“All right.” He looked again from Alex’s hand to the supplies on the raft. They were branded with Baron Sinclair’s coat of arms. “Though I’d give a lot to hear that story.” He shook his head. “I’ll speak to the captain of the Olive Bough for you as soon as he comes ashore.”

“Thank you.”

(Go on to Part 36)

(Go back to Part 33)

It was another day before she could rise or feed herself.

She nearly screamed when the sergeant changed the bandage. “It’s healing well—be thankful for that, at least.”

Alex nodded, beads of sweat standing out on her forehead. “Where’s my sword?”

“At the bottom of the river, likely, near the docks. You dropped it when you saw your hand.”

Alex hung her head, embarrassed. “Oh. I forgot.” She sighed. “It was a gift from the headmaster.”

“You’re not in much of a state to use it right now anyway,” replied McCann.

“My sword arm’s fine!” But the sergeant was right. She was still very weak.

Days passed by as they drifted down the river. The raft was large and laden with provisions for a hundred men; they were in no danger of starving. McCann boiled river water in a kettle over a fire in the center—some farsighted soldier had seized the stone from drier land before entering the swamp. The water was muddy, but safe enough once boiled.

Endless swampland passed by on either side in an unbroken, tangled line. When Alex grew strong enough to use the pole, they stopped tying up the raft at night. It was awkward with one hand, but the river was slow and so she managed.

“Where do you think we are?” asked Alex one morning as she finished her watch.

“I’m not sure,” said McCann, “but we’ve been bearing around more and more to the west instead of south. The river should take us to the sea, and the sea can take us to Antioch.”

That night there was a long, warm rainstorm. In the morning, Alex’s hand no longer hurt, but the itching threatened to drive her mad.

“Good,” said McCann when he heard the news. “Now we can take the bandages off.”

A few minutes later Alex was staring at what was left of her hand. Most of the flesh had been burned away from her palm, leaving her fingers gaunt and skeletal. Hard pink scar tissue covered the inside of her hand and licked up around to the other side like pale flames. When she clenched, sharp twinges of pain lanced through the puffy, stiffened flesh. Blood was smeared across her palm when he opened it again, seeping from tiny cracks in the scar tissue. It was ugly—an ugly red claw.

“A healer might’ve done better,” admitted McCann, “with a whole store of medicines to work with.”

Alex thought of spiders. “No, I prefer this to how it was.”

“Aye. And it didn’t mortify. Else I’d have had to cut the whole thing off,” said McCann.

“A one-armed Curate,” pondered Alex.

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

Alex remembered Matthias. “No, I suppose not.”

It took her a few days to get used to her new hand. The scar tissue was stiff, although McCann said it would loosen some. While she had no feeling in her palm, the joints and breaks in her scar tissue burned whenever movement broke them open again. When McCann saw this, he had Alex pour alcohol over the wounds. The pain was incredible, but McCann insisted, saying “I didn’t go to all that work just to see you lose it now.”

They saw no one. Alex lost track of the day—everything that had happened before her fever seemed like a terrible dream. As she had no sword, McCann had her training with other weapons. A tent pole became a quarterstaff; the twohanded grip stung her left hand, but the practice was good for rebuilding her flexibility. Sparring on the moving raft was difficult, so sometimes they pushed it onto a sandbar and fought in the shallows.

“I like it,” said Alex one day. She was soaked from a fall in the shallow water. The sergeant was nearly dry.

“What?”

“The staff. I think it suits me.”

“A useful thing, the quarterstaff,” said McCann.

“Why’s that?”

“Doesn’t look like much.”

“Eh?” she asked.

“Walk into an inn with a sword at your hip, everyone knows what you are. Like as not some idiot will try and pick a fight with you. Come in cloaked and leaning on a walking stick, though . . . well, it can be useful, in certain places.”

“What about the zombii?” she asked him.

“Well, that’s a little tricky. You gotta learn to hit them right.” He picked up a rock and tossed it in the air. A strike from his own staff sent it sailing out over the water. He turned back to her. “Of course, the right eye will always know a quarterstaff isn’t just a walking stick. You’re not like to fool him either way.”

(Go on to Part 35)

(Go back to Part 32)

Chapter 16

“There is only one Cure,

And it is I.

The flame burns my heart.

What delicious madness this is!”

–The Lexicon, Verses of Fire and Death, 72:1

–

Spiders. Spiders everywhere.

Alex could feel them. Tiny legs, feather-light all over her body. They skittered across her eyelids, danced in her belly button, and snaked between her toes. They were under her toenails, climbing into her nose—they were suffocating her!

She had to move, had to shake them off somehow . . . but she couldn’t. She was pinned down, anchored by a flaming brand stuck through her left hand. White hot steel pierced her palm—the pain! The pain was too great. She tried to whimper, but nothing came out.

Something was on her mouth. Something was trying to pry her jaw open. She couldn’t fight it, couldn’t move, anything. She didn’t want the spiders to come in! Not her mouth!

“Alex!”

A voice.

“Alex! I need you to relax!”

Relax? Silly. With this pain in her hand?

“Don’t fight me, Alex! Trust me!”

The voice forced her jaw open. The terror swept up like a dark wave, threatening to engulf her, but instead of spiders a bitter liquid filled her mouth. She swallowed some.

The world receded again. She fell into darkness . . . down . . .

–

Drifting, confused shapes. A riot of sound in her head.

“Quiet!” yelled Alex. She could barely hear herself think.

The pain struck like a thunderbolt, pinning her to the ground. The dark swam up again to engulf her.

“No!” said Alex. “I will stay here!”

The darkness pulled back. In its place came strange images.

Baron Sinclair stood at the edge of the pool, wrapped in horned tentacles. They tore and tore but could not pull him down. He stared, terrified, at Alex.

Headmaster Barrius was drilling them in Goodhollow’s keep. Alex tried and tried but could not pick up her sword. She had to catch up, had to—

McCann was in front of her. His back was freshly flayed, flesh hanging in long strips behind him and dripping blood. He spoke with Sinclair’s voice. “They’re just leverage. The zombii . . . just leverage. Zombii . . . leverage . . .”

A million huge bugs were flying at her. She raised her sword, but spiders swarmed from the hilt, covering her, biting her. She screamed as they ate the flesh off of her skull until nothing was left but bone. The bugs flew closer—she could feel the beat of their wings, the rasp of pincers as they landed on her bare skull. Twin multifaceted eyes stared into hers—a triple jaw unfolded, stretching toward her mouth . . .

She was eating in the hall with Dalia. Her friend laughed at something; Alex reached out to touch her. The moment her left hand touched Dalia—

The pain blasted through her palm. This time the darkness was too strong, and she fell again . . .

–

It was daytime when Alex woke. She was on her back, with rough timbers underneath and a crude tarp overhead.

Her hand hurt. A lot.

But she was thirsty, too. “Sergeant,” she tried to say, but the only noise that came out was a dry rasp.

A dark shape appeared over her. “Ah, she lives.”

“Water . . . please,” croaked Alex. She blinked to try and clear her vision.

“One moment.” A leather drinking skin was pushed to her lips. Alex drained it.

“Is there any more?” Her voice was clearer.

“Soon. I’m boiling more.”

Alex nodded. She could see McCann clearly now, crouched over her. “How long was I out?”

“A week.”

“A week?!?”

“You passed out when I burned your hand, and then you caught a fever . . .”

“My hand—the—” The image of the spiders streaming from her palm burst back into her mind. Alex panicked, trying to reach over and tear her bandage off.

“Hey! Hey! Calm down, it’s all right.” McCann restrained her. “They’re gone, they’re gone! Trust me.”

“You’re . . . you’re sure?” Alex thought of his dream, of the spiders crawling all over her body. If she thought about it hard enough, she could still feel their tiny, soft legs . . .

“I’m sure. But you need to heal. The skin is still . . . pretty bad.”

“You burned it?” she asked.

“Aye. Had to.”

“How bad is it?”

“A healer could’ve done better,” McCann admitted, “but I’ve seen worse. It won’t be pretty, and it will be stiff, but I think you’ll be able to use it.”

Alex digested this bit of information, looking again to her bandaged hand. She had a hard time imagining herself disfigured . . . but now she was. “It hurts a lot.”

“I know. There’s not much for it. When it starts to itch instead, you’ll know the worst is over.”

The thought of itching made her think of spiders again. “Sergeant, what . . . what was that? What happened? Why did they start coming from . . .?” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“That’s the hand you scraped before falling in the pool, right? The hand the water healed?” asked McCann.

Alex nodded.

“Well, you saw how the rest of the place went up when Sinclair dunked the zombii. Life traded for death. I’d guess everything healed with water from the pool went the same way.”

Alex shivered at the memory. “They were coming out of my hand . . . out through my skin . . .”

“Aye. And if you had it that bad, imagine the poor sap who had half his chest put back together. Bet he was a bit uncomfortable.”

The thought made Alex want to vomit. Instead, she asked another question. “How did you know to use the fire?”

McCann looked up at her. “There’s only one Cure, remember?”

“And if the fire didn’t work . . .”

“If the fire didn’t work, I was going to cut if off and burn it again.”

“I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” said Alex.

“Aye, me too. Though it might’ve hurt less.” McCann turned back to the fire. “Who’s Dalia?”

“What?”

“Dalia. Who is she? You kept saying her name while under the fever.”

“I—nobody. She’s nobody—she’s an old friend.”

“Really?”

“Yes! She’s just a friend.”

“The friend you’re going to Antioch for?”

Alex didn’t answer; McCann let the subject drop. They sat in silence for a moment.

“How did you know?” asked Alex finally.

“Hmm?” said McCann.

“How did you know it would go wrong?”

“I didn’t know.” He shrugged. “But I guessed.”

“How?”

“This . . . sort of thing . . . has happened before,” said McCann slowly. “We have records, stories. ancient tools, things that were found and thought to be cures for the Plague.”

“They aren’t, though?”

“It always goes wrong. Very, very wrong,” said McCann.

“Always?” asked Alex.

“Always. Else how could the Ancients have lost?”

“Sinclair said that maybe they discovered the cure too late—”

“What would a million zombii be to the Ancients if they had a cure? Less than nothing. No, the Curate have the right of it—there is only one Cure,” said McCann.

“There is only one Cure.” Alex repeated this bit of information. If it was true, then Dalia was doomed no matter how long Joseph could keep her alive. The terrors of the Weeping Tree supported McCann’s argument . . . but even so, she had to talk to the Grand Master. Maybe there was something else.

“Sergeant . . .”

“Eh?”

“That was a Curate book that Sinclair had, yes?” asked Alex.

“. . . Aye.” McCann answered carefully.

“So the Curate knew about the Weeping Tree. They’d been there before—the directions were written in the old language.”

“. . . They were.”

“Then why was the back of the book missing? It would’ve warned Sinclair not to use the water from the Weeping Tree to cure the undead. Surely the Curate tried it, and failed,” reasoned Alex.

“. . . There’s a bend in the river coming, I need to go steer the raft.” McCann disappeared, and Alex was left alone with the most troubling question of all.

(Go on to Part 34)

(Go back to Part 31)

Chapter 15

“… But the Ancients were deceived.

For even their places of safety were broken open. After consuming the cities, the ravenous hordes turned to the last fortresses of mankind and tore them open. All were consumed.

Even those who thought to put the mighty sea or the height of mountains between themselves and the Plague failed to find safety. For the Ancients betrayed themselves; in their greed, the seeds of the Plague were already sowed deep inside their bodies. And so eventually all but a bare few were consumed.”

–The Lexicon, Leviathans 13:15

–

It was two days before General Clovis returned from the swamp with a suitable specimen. By then, all the wounded soldiers had bathed in the pool, as well as several with other chronic conditions. The burning steam cleaned all wounds and purged all diseases.

McCann refused to, despite the web of scar tissue on his back. He also forbade Alex from returning to the pool.

That evening, Baron Sinclair assembled the army in the Weeping Tree’s octagonal chamber. The soldiers were in high spirits after two nights of plentiful food, rest, and dry feet. The healing miracles helped too, of course, and now everyone was curious to see the tree. Sinclair’s men talked and joked amongst themselves, waiting for the baron to appear. An expectant hum filled the chamber.

“I don’t like this,” said McCann. They were on the steps closest to the exit, at his insistence.

“What?” asked Alex.

“All the theatrics. The baron wants to make this a big show. This is supposed to be his coronation as master of miracles, but he hasn’t tried it on the zombii yet,” said McCann.

“It cured everything else. Why wouldn’t it work on them?” asked Alex.

McCann shook his head. “There’s only one Cure. You know that.”

Alex argued, “Maybe this is the exception. Maybe this will actually work.”

“People have thought so before, many times, and it always goes wrong. Horribly wrong. The Curate knows this because of the records at Antioch.”

“The baron says the Curate—”

“I know what the baron says!” There were a few moments of uneasy silence between them.

“The baron says that with the zombii gone, we can build a new world, and save the infected,” said Alex, finally.

“A brand new world with him as its emperor. Tell me, what do you think he would do if someone didn’t want to be part of his new world? Deny them the cure, maybe? Or even spread the Plague in their lands, knowing that his soldiers would be immune?” asked McCann.

“. . . I didn’t think about that. He wouldn’t actually do that, would he?” asked Alex.

“He would. This man has Curate knights in chains. He has your brothers in chains; remember that, Acolyte,” he spat.

They were cut off by the appearance of Baron Sinclair. Behind him was a naked zombii, tethered around the neck and held by four soldiers with long ropes. Alex was glad she wasn’t one of the men who had to capture it; the undead creature snapped and clawed at them, although at a safe distance.

“Men! Brave soldiers! My brothers!” Sinclair lapsed into the old Southern tongue as his speech continued. At several points he pointed from the pool to the zombii, and the army cheered. Finally he finished and beckoned Minister Turin forward. The minister had a basin of water drawn from the pool; he gave it to the baron.

As they watched, the baron beckoned Turin to take a drink. The minister hesitated at first . . . Alex remembered the old man complaining about an incurable stomach illness and continuous ulcers. Turin took the basin and sipped from the edge; his eyes went wide, and he expelled a large cloud of steam, but appeared otherwise unharmed. The soldiers roared their approval, and Turin rejoined their ranks, shy at the attention he’d received.

McCann’s hand moved to his sword hilt. Alex watched him, wondering what he was thinking, and of the conversation with the baron. As she was about to ask, the sergeant leaned over to say something.

“Be ready,” whispered McCann, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

The baron climbed onto the side of the pool, standing with the basin held over his head. The soldiers jerked the zombii forward, pitching it onto its knees in front of the baron. He pronounced one last, long phrase, and then upended the basin.

There was a flash, as with the wounded man, but much brighter. It was so bright that they had to cover their eyes; when their vision cleared, there was again a great cloud of steam. Inside writhed the form of the zombii, but as the steam cleared they could see that it was not healed. Instead it was wreathed in shooting white flames. They blasted out of the zombii’s gut, consuming it from the inside. The soldiers holding it fled, but with a final bright flare the zombii was consumed. All that remained was a smoldering pile of ash.

A hushed silence fell over the group. Alex’s heart fell—it wouldn’t do to give Dalia that—

A huge black shape exploded out of the ground where the ashes had fallen, scattering them in a puff of white smoke. Its form was indistinct, but Alex caught a glimpse of shining black chitin and empty glittering eyes. Jagged claws scythed out from it on either side, spraying blood as they ripped the nearest two soldiers to pieces. A third man screamed as the beast spat a glob of green acid straight forward into his face. The Southerners recoiled in terror; some screamed, while others reached for their swords—

The baron’s blade came down in a silver arc and crunched deep into the giant beetle’s carapace. He cleaved the head all the way in two from his position behind it on the ledge; it shivered once and died, legs digging furrows in the soft dirt.

The baron pulled his sword from the carcass and spat once on the ground, nonplussed. “Turin! What is this?”

Everyone turned to the minister, but Turin seemed to be having some trouble speaking. His face had gone ash-white and he was clutching his abdomen. It looked like he was in pain.

“Turin? What’s wrong? Speak!” commanded the baron.

The old man opened his mouth to speak, but instead blood frothed out. It spilled from his lips, boiling and smoking in puddles on the ground. It came from him faster and faster, in unnatural quantities . . . the soldiers began to edge away from him as he fell to his knees.

“Turin? Turin!”

It didn’t appear that Turin could hear him.

“Turin, say something!”

The elderly minister jerked backwards, as if his body was being pulled by invisible strings. His face was contorted, skin pulled tight by straining muscles and eyes bulging sightless from their sockets. There was something moving under the back of Turin’s robes, something growing . . . Alex tried to look away, but she couldn’t. Turin opened his mouth again . . .

A piercing, inhuman shriek filled the air like the screams of a thousand birds of prey. Long, black, skeletal wings tore out of his back, dripping with strange fluid as they clacked against one another in agonized thrashing. Soldiers drew swords—everyone was yelling at once—

The inhuman shriek was joined by others from the men assembled in the room. Alex’s gaze darted to this new sound before she could stop himself. Other soldiers were struggling with something—there was movement—strange, fast movement, not human, and coming somehow from inside the men nearby—

“Come on!” McCann grabbed Alex by the shirt. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here! Now!” He started pulling her toward the passage.

“But they need our help!” she said.

“There’s no time—”

A blurred, thick cluster of horned tentacles lashed out from beneath the pool’s surface and stabbed through the baron’s chest, blossoming like a chitin flower from his breastbone. He roared more in rage than pain, still alive somehow, and slashed their writhing mouths into ribbons with his sword as they hauled him toward the ceiling of the chamber. More tentacles stabbed him through again and again until finally the sword spun from his hand into the water.

The entire surface of the pool was foaming with furious teeth and gnashing claws. Sinclair disappeared with a choking scream while more glittering black creatures piled from the water, taking hold of anything living nearby.

“Where—what—how? There’s nothing in the pool—how did they—” Alex didn’t understand.

“There’s no time! Just come! Now!” yelled McCann.

They turned from the room and ran down the passage. Screams followed them, human and . . . otherwise.

McCann didn’t pause when they got outside. He plunged into the grass, which had turned jet-black and brittle. It shattered underfoot like glass. Alex slowed, startled.

“What the—”

“Don’t stop!” McCann yelled back, and they sprinted for the gate.

Most of the torches were out, but the full moon lit their path. Alex could hear yells and the sharp clang of steel nearby as the sentries fought with an unknown foe. She nearly tripped a moment later; the ground was changing, bulging up in places as if earthen bubbles were coming to the surface.

Her boot caught on another mound a moment later, and with a shower of dust a huge buzzing insect clawed its way into the air. With one motion Alex turned, drew, and struck the creature square in the body with her blade. The thick, furry carapace spurted green blood that boiled on the steel of her sword, and the insect crashed to the ground in a writhing heap of claws and wings.

“Alex! Come ON!” yelled McCann, grabbing her arm. “Don’t try to fight them! There are too many!”

McCann was right—the whole compound was writhing underfoot with creatures trying to break through to the surface. Some were huge insects like the one Alex had killed; others were giant soft white worms with round fanged mouths. Alex leapt past one right as a sticky tongue shot out and snagged a flying insect over her head. The insect stabbed furiously at the fleshy skin of the worm until rows of crushing teeth shattered its body. Alex shuddered as the bug emitted a high-pitched death scream.

Other things were coming out of the ground as well—other things even more terrible and disgusting than giant fanged maggots. Her booths crushed carapaces, popped sacs of stinking fluid, and cracked long segmented legs. She didn’t look; she couldn’t look. Alex kept her eyes focused on McCann’s back as the fields around them erupted in an orgy of feeding claws and teeth.

McCann vaulted over the trenches and sharpened stakes set around the main gate. The sentries were already dead—Alex saw movement inside of one man’s shattered red abdomen, but she ripped her eyes away before she could see any more. They cleared the gate, and Alex could see McCann’s goal—the rafts that had carried their supplies through the swamp, tied up now on the river.

They sprinted down the ruined dock toward the water. With a careless jump, she crashed down next to McCann on the nearest raft. “Cut the lines!” McCann already had a long pole in his hands—Alex scrambled to her feet and hacked apart the ropes binding the raft to the shore. As they shoved against the dock, the raft started to move out into the current.

A buzzing filled the air. Alex caught the shadow of more huge flying shapes coming toward them. She swatted them from the air one at a time, sizzling green blood dripping down her sword and onto the raft. Then the river’s current took hold of them and the shore started to recede, although they could still hear the terrible cacophony of death that was tearing the compound apart.

“There. I think we’re safe.” McCann laid down the pole. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—although . . .”

The sergeant began lighting the torches still on the raft. “What?”

Alex clenched and unclenched her left hand a few times. It felt strange. “My hand itches.”

“Your hand—” McCann froze. “The same one you scraped in the pool?”

“Yes, but I don’t know—”

“Give it to me. Now!” He seized Alex’s hand and tore off the glove.

Alex screamed. Her sword went spinning overboard. Tiny spiders were streaming from a ragged black hole in her left palm. Her glove dripped with the blood of crushed arachnids, but more kept pouring out from inside of her body. Some were fighting, devouring each other, while others streamed up her wrist or fell from the tips of her fingers.

She tore at the skin frantically with her fingernails. “Getitoff-getitoff-getitoff!!!”

McCann seized a torch with one hand and clamped down on Alex’s forearm with the other.

“Sergeant! Help! I’m—!!”

“I’m sorry.” And he thrust Alex’s palm into the flames.

The pain was immediate and immense. Alex heard someone scream—the scream filled her whole mind until nothing was left, and she fell down into darkness . . . down, down . . .

(Go on to Part 33)

(Go back to Part 30)

Turin and McCann were still arguing about the nature of the puzzle on the door when Sinclair and Alex returned.

Alex wandered away from the group and found herself drawn to the Weeping Tree. Now that it wasn’t shrouded in darkness, Alex knew that it was the most stupendously gigantic tree she’d ever seen. The trunk sat on an island in the center of the pool and was as big around as Headmaster Barrius’s office, while the lowest branch was at least twenty feet from the ground. It grew up through the steel lattice of the skylight, tearing some beams out of their sockets while supporting and growing through others. The crown was invisible from inside—she would have to climb the wall again to catch a glimpse of it.

And it really was weeping. Fat, clear droplets seeped from unseen pores to go trickling down the thick, wet trunk or splash into the pool below. It wasn’t a heavy flow, but it was constant. The twisted fibers of the trunk were always slicked black with moisture—

Except the trunk wasn’t uniform. Alex took a closer look at the fibers of the Weeping Tree’s trunk. Hundreds of roots came together at the bottom, twisting around clockwise to form the trunk—but some of them weren’t roots. They were darker than the others, and banded like flexible cables. Something artificial; if only she could get a closer look—

Alex slipped on the edge of the pool. Before she could stop herself, she tumbled headfirst into the water. It was only a few feet deep, but slippery on the bottom. Finally she rose, spluttering and spitting water from her mouth. Her scraped hand burned under the bandage.

“Alex! What are you doing?!?” yelled McCann.

“It’s okay, I just slipped!” she called back. Her hand really was burning now—she’d caught herself on the bottom of the pool with it and now it hurt worse than before. “I’ll have to go wrap this up again, though—”

Alex stopped, frozen, as she looked at her hand.

Steam streamed from under the rough cloth tied around her palm. Wisps of vapor trailed from underneath like her hand was a kettle on the stove. When they stopped, the pain was gone. Alex unwrapped the bandage—underneath was fresh new skin. It was pink and raw, but there was no sign of the scrape from earlier.

She eased out of the pool, slowly. Alex shook herself once, sending a spray of droplets out over the dead leaves. Wherever they landed, there was a hiss and puff of steam. Soon the dry leaves were green again. Alex picked one up. It was soft and fresh, like it had just been plucked from the branch.

“Um . . . Sergeant? I think you need to see this,” she said.

A minute later, as the others watched, she picked up a dead leaf by the stem and dipped it into the pool. There was a loud hiss, a cloud of steam, and she pulled it back out—green and alive.

–

Baron Sinclair sent word to bring forward the army’s most grievously wounded soldier. The man was brought in on a litter, moaning softly in a fevered sleep.

“I’m keeping him unconscious, for his own good. It would be a mercy if the fever would let him die,” said the doctor.

“What happened?” asked Sinclair.

“He was speared by a branch in the swamp. The wound has festered since then. Were it an arm, we would cut it off, but the shoulder . . .” the doctor trailed off.

“Remove his dressings,” ordered the baron.

The soldier’s chest was uncovered. As soon as the bandages came off, an incredible stink filled the air; Alex nearly gagged. A ragged hole was torn through the man’s left shoulder, but the whole upper part of the body was mottled gray and black. Skin and flesh were beginning to slough off at the slightest touch, and much of it remained stuck to the bandage. The surgeon applied pressure to the wound, and thick yellow pus spurted from the hole. He wiped it away with a cloth as the man moaned again.

“There is no chance he will live?” asked the baron.

“Not without a miracle,” said the doctor.

Sinclair covered a smile with his hand. “Minister, please.”

Turin appeared over the man with a cup of water drawn from the pool. He said a quick prayer to himself and poured the contents onto the wounded man.

There was a flash, and a billowing cloud of steam blocked their vision. Alex heard the soldier scream, and then everything was silent.

After a minute, a shape appeared through the vapor. The soldier walked out of it, bare-chested, and covered in fresh pink skin. He stared at them, confused, and asked the surgeon a question in the Southern tongue. When the other answered, they both fell to their knees, babbled something that Alex didn’t understand.

“It’s a miracle!” shouted Turin, and he joined them. McCann and Alex followed suit, even the Baron bent a knee. As Turin led the prayer, though, The baron rose again and walked to the pool. Alex watched him from the corner of his eye. Sinclair pulled a dagger from inside his sleeve and sliced open his palm in one swift motion. She winced, but the baron did not; fat red droplets spattered the water.

Using the other hand, Sinclair splashed water onto the fresh wound. A flash, more steam, and the cut was healed. The baron traced the line of fresh skin with a finger, and then sheathed his dagger.

“Alex!” The baron’s booming voice interrupted the prayer. “Get me General Clovis! I need a zombii.”

(Go on to Part 32)

(Go back to Part 29)

They found the baron in front of the gate to the inner complex, along with Clovis and Minister Turin. “Ah, there you are. I have need of you, Curate; I’m opening the gate.”

“Now?” McCann raised an eyebrow. “The men are exhausted.”

“Yes. Now.”

“But who knows what’s inside? What if the zombii—”

The baron cut him off. “According to the book, we have nothing to fear from the chamber inside. I haven’t come this far just to stop now!”

McCann looked at him for a moment. “All right.” He drew his sword. “Let’s go.”

“It’s not your sword we need, it’s your eyes,” said the baron.

“I like to be prepared,” replied McCann.

“As you will.” The baron nodded to General Clovis. “Open it.”

These doors were made of the same steel as the outer gates, but they were still mounted and undamaged. The general pushed against them, and they swung open slowly on hidden hinges to reveal a dark passage. Nothing moved inside.

McCann pulled a torch from where it was driven into the ground and kept it in his off hand. He gave the baron one last look before stepping inside.

The passage was short and straight. It opened into a wide octagonal chamber, sunk into the ground and ringed with rows of steps. The moon and stars were visible through huge shattered skylights. Vines stretched down from the roof, clinging to walls and hanging from steel trusses above. The floor was covered in something—they lowered their torches to see a layer of dry leaves ankle deep. A strange dripping sound filled the room.

As they descended the steps, a black shape loomed in the darkness. Drawing closer, the torchlight revealed a massive tree reaching up through the broken skylights. The dripping was coming from the branches—thick, heavy droplets bunching on the tips of leaves or sliding down the trunk. They fell into a shallow pool around the base of the trunk, marked by a low wall.

“There it is . . .” muttered Minister Turin.

“What?” asked Alex.

“The Weeping Tree,” replied the baron.

They stood, gazing at the strange sight, until McCann reappeared. His sword was sheathed. “The room’s clear.”

The baron stirred himself. “Good. Is there another door?”

“Yes. On the far wall.”

They approached. It was a blast door built two stories high out of reinforced steel and titanium. Vines and creepers obscured its edges.

“How do we open it?” asked the baron.

“I . . . I don’t know.” stammered Turin.

“Well, what does the book say?” asked Sinclair, simmering with impatience.

“Nothing; the last pages are missing. There’s nothing after the mention of the Weeping Tree.”

The baron growled in annoyance. “Well, get looking! My prize is somewhere behind that door. There have been too many delays already!”

McCann found the control panel a few minutes later. It blinked on, a brilliant blue light in the darkness. He scraped vegetation off of its surface. “Here’s something.”

They gathered around, all captivated by the strange artificial light except for the sergeant. “What is it?” asked Turin.

“The way in,” responded McCann. He touched it and text appeared. “A puzzle, left for us by the Ancients.”

“The old language . . . but such a strange dialect,” pronounced Turin, after a few minutes studying the panel.

“Aye.” McCann touched the panel again and the text changed. “You’ll need my help with this one, too.”

“Well, get started!” said the baron.

“What, now?” McCann looked at him, incredulous.

“Yes, now!” he thundered. “I’d do it myself if I could, but barring that I’ll have you two at it until that door is open! No more delays!”

“. . . we’ll need light. Lots of it,” said McCann.

“More torches, then, Clovis!” Sinclair waved away the general.

“Paper, too, and quill—”

“There is no ink,” said Turin.

“Charcoal, then. Sharpened to write with,” amended the sergeant.

The baron nodded. “Yes, yes, I’ll send for it. Just get working!”

–

Alex fell asleep watching the two figures crouched over the panel. When she woke the next morning, buried in the fallen leaves, they were still working, red-eyed and grumpy. Baron Sinclair was gone, but Alex could see a rut worn in the leaves where he had paced all night.

Alex stretched and yawned. McCann heard her. “Get us some breakfast, will you?”

“Sure.” Alex got up and went into camp.

When she came back, the sun was well up and there was no more need for torches. She brought them more bacon, hardtack, half a dozen of the strange fruit, and a wineskin.

“There you are. What took you so long?”

“I tripped on a slab of concrete hidden in the grass. It scraped my palm pretty bad.” Alex held up her left hand. It was wrapped in a bloody cloth and stung badly. The food was held in her right.

“So much for your friendly spirits,” was all McCann said. He ate slowly, head down and shoulders hunched over. Turin looked worse—he rocked back and forth as he sat. Both smelled of smoke and had bloodshot eyes.

“Any luck?” asked Alex.

“No!” they said together. Alex dropped the subject.

When the baron arrived later, Alex expected him to begin yelling about the door again. He didn’t, though. Instead, he came to her.

“Alex. Walk with me.”

“Uh . . . of course, Milord,” she replied. It was the only possible answer.

Alex followed the baron out into the passageway. “What is it, Milord?”

The baron laughed. “You can drop the title, Alexis. I think after coming through that swamp together we know each other a little better than that!” He laughed again and draped an arm over Alex’s shoulders in a gesture that was supposed to seem paternal. Soon they were out of earshot of the others.

“So, um . . . what can I do for you?”

“Alexis—Alex . . . yes, I feel like I know you well by now. You fought well in the pass; I saw you slay more than your share of the monsters. Then you climbed the wall, alone, before pulling that stunt at the gate,” he laughed, “. . . yes, Alex, you remind me a lot myself at your age. I feel like I know you well.”

Alex opened her mouth to reply, but the baron didn’t give her the chance. “The one I don’t know is your father, the ex-Curate.”

“My father?” asked Alex.

“Yes. I don’t know what he’s going to do when we find it, and I need to know now, before we do,” said the baron.

Alex’s chest tightened; this was a treacherous line of inquiry. “What are we going to find?”

“You haven’t guessed? Come on, Alex, you’re smarter than that! What’s worth all this trouble? A dozen ships, thousands of leagues of travel, hundreds dead, incredible risks, and as Turin all-too-frequently reminds me, an enormous expenditure of wealth.” He looked her in the eye. “What could be worth all of that?”

Alex’s blood ran cold. She could barely speak the words. “A . . . cure?”

“Exactly!” The baron slapped her on the back and started walking again without noticing that he had nearly knocked her over. “It’s never been mentioned outright, but when I found that book I knew it could only be referring to one thing. A cure, an end to the Plague once and for all, a power the ancients discovered just too late to save them. But if I had it, if I could use it—”

“But the Curate says that the only Cure is the flame,” said Alex, following him.

“The Curate! God take them!” Sinclair spat on the ground. “That’s what I think of the Curate. Of course they would say that.”

“Are they right?” asked Alex, heart pounding in her chest.

The baron laughed. “The Curate says there’s only one Cure, but they don’t mean the flame, Alex. Oh no—it’s not about the flame at all.”

“It isn’t?” asked Alex.

“No!” thundered the baron, “What they’re really saying is that the only cure for the Plague is the Curate. And at what cost? Taxes, royalties, right-of-passage, right-of-conscription, fealty, emergency powers—it’s a choice, they say, but a choice between what? A choice between death and slavery?!? The zombii or the Grand Master?!? Tell me, which should I prefer flying over my castle, crows or the Red Flame?” He spat again on the ground. “The Curate can take that for my tribute.”

“But they exist to fight the zombii—”

“The zombii are their leverage. The zombii are only there to scare us into submission, a threat grossly exaggerated by old wives’ tales and Curate propaganda. You were there in the pass—you saw the battle! How many thousand fell to our blades? I tell you, they die just as well by our steel as any other. Maybe better!”

The baron was flustered with the heat of his argument. Alex decided not to mention the slow trickle of casualties in the swamp, more than three times the number lost in the battle. She brought the conversation back to the Cure. “But if the cure is found, then it won’t matter. We won’t need to fight the zombii any more—”

“—and we won’t need the Curate a minute longer!” Sinclair slapped her on the back again. “With the zombii gone, the world will rise up to throw off the yoke of the Curate. A new world, in need of someone with vision and strength to guide it.”

Alex could finally see what the baron was asking. “You want to know what my father will do if you find the cure, knowing it will be the end of the Curate.”

“Yes.” The baron turned to Alex and held her with his eyes. “Will he still be loyal? Or will he embrace their destruction? They were his brothers at one point, even if he’s exiled now. I learned never to underestimate that bond a long time ago.”

“What bond?”

“The bond between brothers, Alex. It gave me this.” And he reached for his sleeve.

Alex gasped when she saw the baron’s forearm. An ugly, ragged scar, purple and bulbous, cut through Sinclair’s thick black hair from wrist to inner elbow. It was an old wound, but a large one.

“Your arm—what happened?”

“Some lessons leave their marks, Alex .” The same arm seized Alex by the shoulder, and the baron pinned her to the wall with his gaze. “What will he do, Alex? What will he do when we find it? I need to know; I need you to tell me.”

It will do no good to lie, Alex thought to herself. He will know—he’s too smart. “I’m not sure,” she said, meeting the baron’s gaze. “That’s the truth. I’m not sure what his relationship with the Curate is.”

“I see.” He stroked his chin. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“A cure . . . would mean everything to me,” said Alex, thinking again of Dalia. It must be cold now in Joseph’s hut, that far North.

“Would it mean enough to fight? Will you fight to protect the cure? Will you fight for me?” he asked her.

“I . . . yes. Yes, I will.” Alex nodded.

“Good. I will count on you, Alex. Serve me faithfully through this, and you’ll see the Plague cured. I promise you that much . . . and Baron Sinclair remembers his promises.” He swept off back down the hallway toward the chamber.

(Go on to Part 31)