Chapter 2
What happened next was that someone attacked him.
He was three days out from the temple, at a narrow stretch of road that was not precisely isolated but certainly not well traveled. Three men came out of the woods, moving casually into the middle of the road. One cleared his throat.
Oh bookless hells.
Edmund had, in fact, been set upon by bandits twice before.
Once he had been with a group of people who had negotiated their way out of it.
Once he had stared at the bandit and the bandit had stared at him, and then they had heard the jingle of bridle bells approaching and the bandit had cursed and melted back into the trees.
It seemed that the third time was the charm—for the bandits, if not for him.
“Give us your money,” said the one in front. He had a knife. The other two had hatchets. The knife would have been alarming enough, but Edmund found that the sight of the hatchets had a remarkably focusing effect.
“All right.” Edmund unhooked his money pouch. His fingers were shaking, but perhaps if he did what they said, they wouldn’t feel obligated to slit his throat as well.
There was a school of thought that said that the most important thing for happiness was to be completely present in the moment. Edmund did not think he had ever been quite so present in the moment. Oddly, this did not make him any happier.
One of the bandits moved toward him, and then there was a terrible clanging in Edmund’s head. The side of his head felt hot.
What … what happened?
He hit you. The bandit hit you. That’s what happened.
But I was going to give him my money! He didn’t have to hit me! I was cooperating!
It didn’t hurt. That was the oddest thing. His head was just very hot and then very cold. Also, he seemed to be sprawled on the ground.
Edmund believed, with every fiber of his being, that a learned dedicate’s calling was a noble one. But at that instant, he would have traded all his skills with words and languages for the ability to take a punch.
Even Mistress Slate’s ability. She would have known what to do … said the right words … talked them out of it before they even got off their horses …
But there was only him, and if you punched him, he fell down.
At least it was only a punch? If he’d used the hatchet, I’d be dead.
The bandit kicked him in the side and it felt as if his rib cage had been staved in. Edmund couldn’t breathe. “Please…” he gasped, crawling sideways, away from the blow. “… please … I don’t … have…”
“He’s not a merchant,” said one of the other bandits, annoyed. “It’s all this crap.”
He must have slit the strap holding one of the bags on the mule, because it suddenly rained books.
One bounced out of its oilcloth wrapper.
Edmund cried out in horror and scrambled toward it.
Some of the book bindings were old, and none of them would be well treated by landing in the dust of the roadway.
The Many-Armed God keep any of these men from treading on them.
The first bandit stepped on his fingers and Edmund shrieked.
“Waste of time,” said the second one, and kicked Edmund in the ribs on the other side.
It occurred to Edmund that he was very likely going to die. This was a dreadful thought, but mostly it just seemed wildly inappropriate.
After everything … after all of it … everything … to die like this? Really?
He flung himself over the books, desperate to stop them from being damaged by the bandits.
Another kick sent him sprawling sideways. He could hear himself making awful mewling noises and wished that he would stop.
The books scattered under his hands. He reached for one and the bandit kicked him again.
There was a terrible clangor in his head. Everything was very dark, although he could swear that it was midafternoon, not nighttime.
“Kill him and be done with it,” said the second bandit, sounding bored. “Just hurry up. We’ve wasted too much time.”
The third bandit, heretofore silent, muttered a curse.
Edmund reached blindly for another book, but his fingers found something that didn’t feel like paper. It was … cloth? Cloth wrapped over metal? Long, cold, with raised patterns.
It’s the artifact, he thought. Please, Many-Armed One, don’t let them damage it.
“What have you got there?” asked the first bandit, kicking at it. Edmund heard cloth tearing.
“No!” he cried, and began to cough. “N—”
He grabbed for the artifact, horrified to feel metal under his hand. The wrappings had come loose. Had they scuffed it? Damaged the scabbard?
Edmund clutched it, trying to drag the sword under his body where he could protect it from further harm.
The next kick half rolled him over, but his fingers were locked on the scabbard now. Something shifted in the metal.
No! Did it break? No, please!
Everything went … silver? Was silver the color you saw before you died?
The light faded. The next thing he heard was a hoarse voice shouting, “Where the hell did he come from?”
Edmund blinked blood out of his eyes. A man was standing over him. His face was inhumanly beautiful, beautiful as a dream or a hallucination. He had two long daggers at his sides and they hissed like snakes as he drew them free.
It’s an angel, thought Edmund fuzzily. It must be. The Many-Armed God has sent a divine messenger to save His books.
This was a trifle confusing, because the Many-Armed God did not usually send angels.
He was not a particularly demonstrative god.
Whole libraries had burned over the centuries without a hint of divine intervention, but here was an angel, clothed in silver light, to save a handful of books from the roadway.
One of those books must be very, very important.
I wonder which one it is? Edmund hadn’t thought that any of the books were that earth-shattering.
There was some poetry, a book on animal husbandry, and a rather nice illuminated herbal that included a treatment for gout, but would the god send an angel just for that?
“Gentlemen,” said the angel, “I do not know why you are beating this fellow. Doubtless you have a very good reason. Nevertheless, if you take another step forward, I will kill you.”
Do angels say things like that?
One of the bandits said something that Edmund was quite certain should not be said in the presence of angels, small children, pregnant women, or the elderly.
Through his increasingly blurry vision, he saw his attackers move.
Edmund tried to shout a warning, but that was foolish, an angel didn’t need mortal warnings, did he?
The bandits attacked. Someone screamed. Was it him? He didn’t think he was screaming. He licked at his lips experimentally and tasted blood and grit, but not screaming. What did screaming taste like, anyway? Overhead, the angel moved like a whirlwind, spinning in place, blades flashing.
What rank of angel is he? Edmund wondered.
His head was pounding as if it would come apart.
What were the ranks of angels again? Archangels, thrones, dominions …
not that it mattered that much, hardly anybody really believed in angels and only a few gods had them, but you wanted to know how to greet your rescuer … seraphim, principalities …
A bandit screamed as the long daggers found his throat and his belly simultaneously.
… seraphs have six wings and are made of fire. He has no wings, but perhaps mortal eyes can’t see them, and he did arrive in silver fire. But archangels are the ones who come and slay demons … not that these men are demons, there hasn’t been any levitating at all …
Another bandit fell under the blades. The angel’s hair was short and dark and shining and his expression did not change at all as he killed.
Perhaps he should just ask. His head throbbed violently. Were you allowed to ask what rank an angel was? Was it terribly rude? One definitely should not be rude to angels.
Screaming. Not the angel. Footsteps running away.
Another scream. Had the angel cut the man down from behind?
That did not seem very angelic, but perhaps you could not hold them to human standards.
The man’s crimes might have warranted such treatment.
Edmund found that he had no trouble believing this.
Really, a man who stepped on books could be guilty of anything.
Things went a bit gray for a moment, then sharpened.
The angel knelt beside him. Edmund looked up into eyes the color of steel and knew that no mortal man had eyes like that. Thin silver lines ran from the corners of his eyes to his temples and traced his jaw as well, as if he had been tattooed with quicksilver, which would be extremely dangerous.
No, he’s an angel. Angels do not die of mercury poisoning. Did any of the ranks of angels have silver lines on their skin? He couldn’t remember reading about that.
“Please…” said Edmund, gathering all his strength. His face ached and his jaw was swelling, but this was important to get right. “Please, are you … a seraph … or an archangel…?”
The angel blinked at him.
“… Have I got it wrong? Are you a throne or … or … a principality?” His vision was beginning to go dark, but he had to know. “I mean … no offense … must … proper … proper…” Everything was dark now, except those magnificent silver eyes. “… proper address … of angels…”
And then, at last, he fainted.