The Eve of Saint Briht

  The last town before the Beorgens, the informal gate, as it was, to the Kings Pass, was the town of Drun. By rights, it should have been a shit hole, with nothing but goat shaggers and sheep herders. Many a lord thought that it was, but Matheller had happy memories of the place. The town was the modest hub of the foothills, a small trade centre that was too far north to be of interest for the lords of the south and on the wrong side of the mountains to attract any ire from the northern lords. It was an uncomplicated, hardy sort of place. Saints, the Baron thought, don’t let the war get this far north.

  But as they approached it, less than a mile out, the Baron couldn’t help but feel a nervous unease in his guts. They were enemies technically, and the Baron and his men little better than spies. They would have to stop there, but it would not do to draw attention to themselves. The lord of Drun was unlikely to recognise a lord from the south but…

  Something shot passed Baron Matheller’s face, brushed the tip of the old man’s nose. He jumped, instinctively pulled back on Gast’s reins. The horse stopped, dirt sliding beneath its hooves. Cursing to his left. One of the men-at-arms, Danner, held his neck, red seeping between his fingers. Matheller wheeled around, looking for the attacker. Then he saw him. A boy, no older than ten, stepped out of the wheat field to their left. He had a wide grin beneath the cutout of a straw mask. The grin quickly disappeared when he saw the six strange riders staring down at him.

  Danner removed his hand, shook off a smear of rotten peach that the boy had thrown at him. “You little shit.”

  The boy ran, screaming, and Danner kicked his mount’s flank, sending the horse into a gallop after the rascal. It took the Baron a second to get his bearings, a second to realise there was no attacker, no dead man. Just a child and an angry Danner. He saw the speed of the horse, the fury of its rider, and kicked Gast into motion. The white charger responded all too keenly.

  Matheller caught up to Danner just as the man leant down from his horse and caught the rascal by the scruff of his shirt. He yanked the boy off his feet, then let go. The lad went tumbling down into the dirt. Danner got down from his horse, fist clenched.

  He gave the boy one hard whack before Baron Matheller said, “Steady, Danner. That’s enough.”

  The man let the child go, and the boy turned to look up at the Baron.

  “Why are you wearing strange masks and throwing fruit, boy?” Matheller said.

  “It’s the eve of Saint Briht,” the boy said. “When he brought that man that was dead back to breathing or something.”

  “Of course,” the Baron said as if that explained the flying fruit.

  “What is you doing riding up here?” The boy asked back.

  “You’re a cheeky little fellow,” the Baron said. “I am a merchant. We’re bringing goods up to Highvale.”

  The lad’s eyes widened. “You’re a traveller then? You heard much about the war? Pa says that it’s bad, but my brother, he got put on duty in the Weards Tower, watching the pass. Told me he saw a few spirits come down from the mountains.”

  “Spirits? How scary,” he said. “Tell me, are there many soldiers in town?”

  The boy shook his head. “None yet. It’s boring.”

  “I hope that it stays that way.” Matheller reached into one of his saddlebags, pulled an apple out. He tossed it to the boy. “Here, that one’s for eating. Understand? Now off with you.”

  The boy caught it. “Thank you, sire. No promises though!” He turned and scampered off towards Drun, leaving little clouds of dust in his wake.

  The Baron watched him go. “Little scoundrel.”

  “You should have let me hit him harder,” Danner said.

  The cart and the rest of the riders caught up to them. Marshal Rudola came alongside the Baron. “Getting to know the locals, Sire?”

  “Oh, yes. Fruit and bloody masks,” the Baron said. “Welcome to the Beorgens. The lad said that there are no troops in town, but they got the Weard Tower manned. I’d like to stop here, Marshal. We’ve spent weeks on the road, and we could use sometime to prepare before we make for the mountains.”

  “If we don’t draw attention to ourselves, I don’t see the harm in it,” Rudola gestured to the rest of them. “They could use some rest.”

  The other men-at-arms, Horace, Tulber and Grune were smiling equally at Danner’s misfortune, and the prospect of a drink and warm bed. On the cart, the groom was looking hopeful, while Sister Joan was moody. She had a deep red and purple splash of plum across her robes.

  “The masks,” she said, “are because Saint Briht concealed his identity after performing the holy miracle. Not for mischief.”

  “Oh, yes.” Rudola grinned. “Sire, I neglected to mention that Sister Joan has also suffered a mortal wound. At this rate, we may not have a single survivor.”

  They were met by two apathetic guards who waved them through the gates of Drun, letting them join the rest of the cantankerous, squabbling, laughing thoroughfare. The doors had wreaths of white yarrow, and folk, young and old, wore straw masks and flower garlands. They saw more flying fruit, but Danner’s mean glare kept them off the travelling party. The road leading up to Dru

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  n’s small church was impassible and full of people. It was indeed the eve of Saint Briht’s holy miracle. For the brother did die on the Morn of Stones, and once winter was past, he was brought to life by the holy saint.

  They found an out-of-the-way inn. It was a miracle that it had any room for them. The Baron had called it Saint Joan’s miracle. The sister didn’t find it funny. But The Leaf and Lilly provided a good place for the Baron and his men to stay out of sight. Even travel-worn as they were, they were not locals and would stand out. The men-at-arms had their armour hidden in the cart, their swords hidden beneath their cloaks. The Baron was the most notable, most likely to be recognised by a chance noble, so he spent most of the afternoon nursing an ale in the inn while the groom and a few of the men went out to buy supplies.

  “How did you find the town?” the Baron said as Sister Joan joined him at his table. “Charming little place. I spend a couple of days here whenever business takes me through the Kings Pass.”

  “I paid the church a visit,” she said. The nun pushed the Baron’s empty plate to the side and placed some papers down on the table.

  “I can see you’ve been enjoying the festivities then.” He raised a fluffy white eyebrow. Sister Joan was a riddle. She was a nun dedicated to the pious life, yet she hardly seemed to notice the holy day.

  “They didn’t have anything as clear as the notes I found in Diod’s account,” she said. “But they did have some old records, and there was a bit of local rumour.”

  “We’re speaking about Eot and the offering?” Baron Matheller said.

  “Yes, my lord.” The nun picked a piece of paper out and stabbed it with her finger. “I didn’t find any mention of Eot by name, but they mention a large man. Two of them actually. The text calls them two old spirits from the days of King Atheren. It coincides well with what Diod said. There’s a site that it calls The Valley of the Grey Watchers, to the west of the Kings Pass. The old spirits are said to visit there.”

  “That would be Eot and this other?” the Baron said.

  “Exactly.” She smiled down at her papers and notes. This was the most excited the Baron had seen the nun in the last two and a half weeks of travelling. “It explains the second offering mentioned by Diod as well. In Diod’s accounts, he gives an offering to Eot to save the King Atheren of the Middle Kingdom. If Diod included an offering for this second spirit, the same logic applies. Perhaps there is an oath that we could make with this second spirit as well.”

  “Perhaps,” Matheller said. He sat back, looked down at the papers scattered across the table, looked at the nun who was looking so intently down at them. It was becoming real now, the ethereal forming into something solid, something dangerous.

  The Baron chuckled to himself, tried to chase the decision that had led him into the shadow of the Beorgens, chasing spirits, or rather, legendary old medicus in the mountains. Too much of a coward to commit any of my people to this war. He was a warrior once, the Blood Red Baron. Now, he was a would-be scholar. Saints, what will Herta think? Hopefully, she was safe, taking good care of the estate.

  “My lord,” she said. “I would like to spend a few more days here, researching the site and the second spirit.”

  Matheller drummed his fingers against the table. There was an intensity in Sister Joan that he doubted most men saw beyond her figure. She had been reluctant to aid him at first, reluctant to take part in the war. But now that it was a scholarly pursuit, she was more intent on getting the aid of these old spirits than he was.

  “We might spend another couple of days in Drun before we make for the Kings Pass,” the Baron said. “Do what research you can, but I only intend on finding a powerful healer. Atheren was a fearsome man, we may not like his reason for the second offering.”

  The last of the sun was setting, casting the Beorgens and thatched roofs of Drun in a marvellous amber light, when Baron Matheller finally decided to walk the streets. The din of Saint Briht’s Eve had diminished or moved indoors to Drun’s rowdy public houses. Most of the people walking the streets now were heading for the evening mass at the church. Mashal Rudola walked by Matheller’s side, with two of the men-at-arms, Horace and Tulber, following discreetly behind them.

  “I like it here less than I thought,” Rudola said. “Folk are far too curious for their own good. If the nun hadn’t been so intent on doing more research at the church, I would have had us leave tonight.”

  “And that’s why I’ll never take the sole advice of a soldier,” Matheller said. “You’re too paranoid, old friend. It would look more suspicious at this point to leave. Really, staying here and drinking like we haven’t a care in the world is the wiser course.”

  “How fortunate, Sire.”

  They passed a one-legged beggar sitting against a wall. The Baron tossed a coin into the beggar’s bowl, squatted his bulk down so that he was nearly at eye level.

  “Thank yous,” the man said.

  “You’re welcome on the Eve of Saint Briht,” the Baron said. “Now, do you know how to get to the north gate from here?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” he said. “Keep heading up the road until you get to the baker’s. There’s an alley down the side by which they cart the flour in. It’ll lead out onto the church street and get you to the northern gate.”

  The Baron slapped him on the shoulder. “Good man.” He got up, rejoined Rudola, and they started walking again. “How’s that? A shortcut to get out of town if need be. Does that calm your nerves?”

  “We’ll see.”

  They followed the beggar’s directions. Rudola, scrupulously as always, carefully checked that the alley was wide enough for them to get the cart through. As the Marshal inspected it, Horace took a piss on the wall, which the Baron supposed made them fit in quite well.

  “Might fit,” Rudola grunted. “Truth be told, I am not much for this skulking. I’d rather be in the south, drilling the men.”

  “And I would rather have a cup of wine and a…” The Baron was cut off by the sound of horses, of heavy hoofs.

  The Baron and Rudola pushed forward in the alley, the old lord stifling his usual heavy breathing as he crept forward in the shadow. They peaked out. The gates were a short distance away, and in the light of the porter’s torch, they saw two riders coming to a stop.

  “… The alderman,” One of the ridders said.

  The porter nodded. “Of course, I’ll get him for you...”

  The ridders passed out of earshot, moving off into the newly fallen dark.

  “I recognise that heraldry,” Rudola said. “Those are Lord Becker’s men.”

  “One of the northern lords,” Matheller said. “Damn. He’ll be marching south to join Herik.”

  “Then, we may have company soon, Sire.”

  Baron Matheller looked back at Horace and Tulber, who had their hands hidden under their cloaks, resting against the hilts of their knives, no doubt. He looked at Rudola’s cold stare at the two riders. The man was calculating, calculating how far ahead of Backer’s army they would be riding. A day or two, at most. These were the thoughts of soldiers, warriors in the business of spilling blood. Once, the Baron would have been thinking likewise, but instead, he felt a cold sadness wash over him. He could try leave it all in his wake, chasing stories, but war had come to Baidon. He and his little party were playing their part in it. Soon enough, the land would be littered by the bodies of good, simple men. It was all he could do to hope that he could keep his house out of the damned thing.