The Silver spike (31 page)

I went up and took the spear from the guy Caddy had decked. His
nose was bloody.

Clumsy as Caddy had looked, I figured I could stumble around and
get in a “lucky” whack that would slow him down for the
rest of the guys that would have to face him. I was rusty but I
used to be pretty good with the standard infantry spear. Always was
about my best weapon.

The body will betray. I went into a stance without thinking.
Caddy looked puzzled. I figured he was mean because everything
puzzled him.

The Nightstalker came and moved my hands and feet and butt
around into what he considered a more acceptable stance. When he
had everybody set he started us through the moves. It got hard to
stay looking inept as they came faster. The muscles and bones
remembered and wanted to do things right.

Caddy decided to break my nose. When he went for it I stumbled
out of the way and accidentally whacked him in the shin. He barked.
Somebody in ranks said, “Yeah!” Somebody else
laughed.

That did it for Caddy. He came after me.

I stumbled around and tried to make like a scared kid trying to
defend himself. Had we been playing for keeps I could have killed
him over and over.

Then he gave me an opening a blind man couldn’t miss. I
tore up his left ear, tripped him, sent him sliding through the
mud. I backed off trying to look scared and unable to believe what
I’d done.

“That’s enough!” our sergeant snapped.
“Give me the spear and get back in ranks, Green. Caddy! Go
get cleaned up. Get that ear fixed.”

I surrendered the spear and moved. The guys were all working
hard not to grin.

“Green!” It was the Nightstalker sergeant.
“Come here.”

I went back. I stood at attention. He looked me in the eye,
hard. Then he touched the cut on my cheek. He backed off, took a
spear from one of the grays, removed the headguard, threw it aside.
“Give him a spear.”

It got real quiet. Everybody wondered what the hell, except my
sergeant. I thought I knew. Queen’s Bridge. But it
didn’t make no sense. It was over a long time ago. My
sergeant tried to argue. The Nightstalker just growled, “Give
him a spear.”

I gave him my best imitation Raven look and tried not to shake
too much as I took the guard off the spear somebody handed me. I
didn’t throw the guard away. That bastard was serious. I
wasn’t going to play around and I wasn’t going to give
up a trick.

He did some fancy moves to loosen up.

My mouth felt awfully dry.

When he turned on me I shifted to a left-handed stance, which
guys always have trouble with for a couple of minutes. I kept the
guard in my right hand.

He tested me with a thrust toward my eyes. I brushed it away,
gently, just manipulating the spear with my left hand. I shot my
right forward, cracked his knuckles with the guard. Cold as it was,
that had to hurt like hell. In the second the pain distracted him I
brought my spear around, still one-handed, in a wild roundhouse
edge cut at his throat. He threw himself backward to avoid it. I
grabbed my spear with my right hand and went into a clumsily
balanced right-handed stance, the butt of my spear forward. I flung
myself and the butt of the spear straight ahead and got him under
the ribs, taking the wind out of him.

After that it was just a couple of easy moves to disarm him and
put him on his back in the mud with the tip of my spear at his
throat. The whole thing didn’t take ten, twelve seconds.

“You’re wrong,” I told him. “I
wasn’t there. But if you was right you should’ve
remembered that the Nightstalkers are only second best,
one-on-one.”

I lifted the spear, stepped back, put the guard on, handed the
weapon to Corporal Royal, headed for my place in ranks. I prayed a
lot as I did. Nobody would look me in the eye. The guys were all
scared shitless.

The Nightstalker took his time getting up. He was as pale as
I’ve ever seen a guy get without doing a lot of bleeding,
which he knew he could have done. He waved off any help. He
recovered spear and guard and made a point of cleaning the weapon
while forty-seven guys waited for something to happen.

He looked around, said, “You learn something every day. If
you’re smart. Let’s have the next six men up
here.”

Everybody sighed. Me included. The shit storm was on hold for a
while.

I noticed that hothead Ken looking at my cheek like he never
noticed the mark there before. Maybe the cold made it show up
more.

With a little sorcery and a little luck Bomanz learned that the
men Exile had sent for the valuable corporal had just gone to
Nightstalker headquarters and told them to produce him.

“Nothing like getting somebody else to do your work for
you,” Raven said.

“Sounds like a fine idea to me,” Bomanz said.
“Why don’t we find a place and wait for them to bring
him to us?”

As easily done as said. There was just one decent,
straightforward route running from the Nightstalkers’
headquarters to the heart of Oar.

“Finally coming,” Bomanz said. “Silent. Lay
down that haze now. Don’t make it so thick they smell
trouble.”

Silent walked a ways away, just kind of stood there. People
passing looked at him and stayed as far away as they could. Soon
there was a stronger than normal smell of woodsmoke. The air grew
hazy.

“This is them,” Bomanz said of a tight little group
approaching.

As the group came abreast the haze suddenly thickened. Bomanz
struck at the escort of four men, flattened them, called his
favorite buzzard in to dispose of their allegiance badges.

The four had been escorting a man and a woman. Silent looked at
the female and started signing so fast only Raven could follow him.
“Brigadier Wildbrand,” he said. “We have to take
her, too. You don’t refuse a gift from the gods.”

Despite their apparel they got into the Gartsen stable without
attracting attention. Wizards were handy sometimes. Raven asked the
man who met them, Gartsen, “Where is she?”

“Loft.”

Raven stepped around a small menhir, climbed, made signs
one-handed.

Neither the corporal nor Wildbrand had said a word yet. They had
no real idea what their situation was. Till Darling came to look
them over. Wildbrand recognized her. The Brigadier said, “Oh,
shit. It’s true.”

Bomanz said, “Tell Darling we’re ready to go get the
rest of them.”

Silent’s hands were fluttering. He ignored the old wizard.
He asked Darling, “Did you talk to the tree?”

She answered his signs, “Yes. He is troubled. He suggests
we remove Case from that camp. Something happened there, involving
Case, that he has heard of from his creatures. We will shackle
these two and leave them with Gartsen.”

Silent started arguing. She donned the clothing of one of
Exile’s guards. Sometimes she used her handicap for all it
was worth. As when she did not want to argue.

Silent and Raven were livid. Neither one believed the tree had
mentioned Case at all.

Smeds kicked his copper’s worth into the discussion.
“I ain’t hungry and I ain’t sick and that’s
worth something even if I got to be sore and tired all the
time.” It had been a hard day.

Somebody said, “Yeah. Bet it’s hell out there
now.”

Another said, “What I’m wondering, suppose we whip
the Limper? Then back to the same old horseshit till they find
their silver whatsit?”

The group grew quiet. That was the first anyone had mentioned
the future. Nobody wanted to think about that.

Smeds glanced at Green. Crowded as the tent was, there was a
clear space around Green. Nobody understood what had happened this
afternoon but they did know there was going to be some shit come
down about it. Nobody wanted to be too close to Green when it
hit.

Somebody said, “The Limper comes and the shit gets to
flying, they’re going to be too damned busy to watch me. I
see the chance, I’m gone. Even if I have to stick Caddy or
somebody.”

The sergeant ripped open the entry flap. “Fall out and
fall in!”

What now? Smeds wondered. More drills? Hadn’t they done
enough for one day? Hell! He was too tired to get pissed off.

At least they hadn’t been singled out. Every tent was
spilling men. As soon as they formed up, the sergeant marched them
over to stand with their backs to the stockade. Grays ran around
with lamps and torches.

Smeds caught a glimpse of Fish in the back rank of the platoon
two to his left. The old man had done something to darken his
hair.

The sergeant called them to attention.

Three dark riders came from the direction of the gate. A man in
black walked beside each. They advanced slowly, studying each
platoon. A review. Exile’s men down to give the raggedy-ass
militia the once-over . . . 

Smeds stomach sank. They acted more like they were looking for
somebody.

But they passed Fish’s platoon without pausing. Maybe it
would be all right after all.

The black riders passed the next platoon and started across the
face of Smeds’s outfit . . . 

The lead rider halted. One arm thrust out, pointing. Fingers
danced. The footman beside the rider pushed in among the men.

Smeds nearly messed himself.

The dark soldier grabbed Green.

Smeds sighed. Green! Of course! The shit had to come down,
didn’t it?

He was so turned inward he missed the arm pointing again, did
not notice the two footmen coming till they were almost to him.

His blood turned to ice.

They took hold and dragged him out of ranks.

The riders headed for the gate. Smeds trudged along behind
Green, a horseman on his left and a foot soldier on his right.
After the first overwhelming shock he began to take control.
He’d gotten out of a couple tight places already. He just had
to stay calm and alert and move fast when his moment came.

A minute after they were in among buildings, masked from
watchers in the camp, Green burst out laughing. “You guys got
more balls than brains!” He punched one of the riders in the
thigh. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. I figured you belonged in there.
This was Darling’s idea.”

“Yeah?” Green laughed again  “I’ll
remember that when your turn in the barrel comes. Why’d you
grab my buddy Ken?”

“She says he’s one of the men who stole the
spike.”

Green looked at him. “No shit?”

Smeds clamped down hard. Panic would not get him out of this
one.

Fish understood what was happening the moment he glimpsed
Exile’s soldiers pulling Smeds out of formation. He
didn’t really think, he just reacted. Everybody was intent on
what the blacks were doing.

He took a few steps back, turned, hoisted himself over the low
stockade. A few of his neighbors in the platoon noticed but did not
holler. Better, none got the bright idea of joining him.

He dropped to the ground, ran, softly cursing his body for
having aged well past the point where this made any sense for him.
He was all aches and stiffness from the day’s drills and he
doubted if he’d ever loosen up.

But by damn he wasn’t going to give in, to those imperial
vampires or to the weakness of his flesh.

He reached the uncleared ruins facing the stockade gate minutes
before the riders came out. He crouched in darkness, waiting, and
took stock.

He had two knives. Because he had come in as a volunteer the
grays had not searched and disarmed him the way they had the
conscripts. But two knives weren’t going to be much use
against that gang.

Craft was the answer. Like hunting and trapping and surviving in
the Great Forest. Craft and stealth and surprise.

There were possibilities he rejected, like doing Smeds the way
Smeds had done Tully. Smeds did not deserve that. It would do no
good now because they knew who they were looking for anyway.
Besides, Smeds was the only one who knew where the damned spike was
hidden.

He watched the silhouettes of the blacks come out.

Before they left the cleared area he was sure there was some
game running. They weren’t headed toward Exile’s setup
in the goddess’s temple uptown. Unless they were planning on
going the long way.

What now?

Since he had expected them to streak straight to Exile he was
set near their most direct route. He would have to move fast if he
wasn’t going to lose them.

He flitted through the ruins like a filthy ghost, making less
noise than most haunts. He was very good at sneaking. One worry,
not quite facetious, was that his quarry would smell him. For days
before volunteering he had been too pressed to clean up and the
days in the stockade had just been time to ripen.

In the Great Forest, to survive where the savages prowled, you
paid attention to how you smelled.

He caught up quickly, was watching from twenty yards away when a
couple of them started congratulating each other.

The key word trumpeted: Darling.

He was thunderstruck.

He hadn’t really expected the White Rose bunch to be
scared off by his threats but he hadn’t figured them for so
bold they’d take uniforms from Exile’s people so they
could ride into the training camp to spring one of their own,
either.

This changed a few things. This made time less critical. This
meant the odds were not nearly as bad. There couldn’t be
many of them left after the purges that had begun last week. Maybe,
once they went to ground, he could pick them off. The big worry
would be how aggressively they would press Smeds.

He followed them so closely he might have been an extra shadow,
and so carefully none of them got that chill-on-the-neck sense of
being watched. And, wonder of wonders, they led him to a place he
knew.

He’d only been in and out of the Gartsen stable a few
times, back during his flirtation with the Rebel cause. But knowing
anything about the lie of the land was better than going in
blind.