Chapter 38
Edmund walked Greathoof until he was out of earshot of the stable.
The sound of hoofbeats would doubtless have alerted the cultists.
But once he was on the road, he pushed the animal into a trot, and then into a canter that threatened to tear his arms out of the socket.
Plate-sized lumps of mud flew in their wake.
The draft horse was slow, no doubt about it.
Anyone on a regular horse could have passed them as if they were standing still.
But judging by the harness marks, he had plenty of experience pulling a wagon and was not completely out of condition, and Edmund knew from the last few weeks that he could walk all day if needed, and trot for a surprising length of time before he needed a rest.
All things considered, he would much prefer simply hiding in the woods, as they had done before.
But this was farm country, nothing but pastures and open fields, and the dense woods that had been so helpful didn’t start until a mile north of the inn, in the opposite direction.
All he could do was ride south and hope that he found someplace to hole up until the cultists had passed.
He wished he had some idea how far south that might be. Not before the swamp road joined up, anyway.
He entertained a brief notion of turning north at the fork and trying to make it to the swamp, but it had been half a day’s steady walk the first time, and while you heard stories about horses running for a day and a night, you also heard stories about wizards hurling fireballs and the touch of a unicorn’s horn curing scrofula and the clap.
On that thought, he let Greathoof drop back to a trot, then a walk. The big horse huffed gently, clearly in a good mood. Edmund patted his neck.
“You’ll be a lot less cheerful in a few hours. Although it’s you, so maybe you won’t be.”
He had a sudden irrational longing for Sweetness, even though the mule wouldn’t have consented to be ridden and wouldn’t be able to keep up.
Sweetness was familiar. Once upon a time, the two of them had made the long trek back and forth between cities together, over and over, back when he served the temple and life was simple and he thought he knew what it was like to fall in love.
It’s important for scholars to admit their own ignorance. Saying “I don’t know” is the beginning of wisdom.
I wish I felt even remotely wise.
I wish—
A shout rang out behind him. Edmund put his heels to Greathoof’s sides before he even dared a look over his shoulder. Horsemen. Five of them. Too far away to make out details, but even as he watched, they broke into a run.
Edmund said a word that he’d learned from the Dervish.
For the first minute or two, it looked as if he might have a chance.
Greathoof was fresh and their horses weren’t.
The big horse’s run was never going to win any prizes for comfort, but his legs ate up the ground, even if every step felt like it was going to jam Edmund’s hip bones into his shoulders.
But then the road hit a long, even stretch and it became obvious that the cultists were gaining with every stride. The distance between them shrank by a quarter, then a third, then a half …
Edmund had no more breath for swearing. The connection to the swamp road flashed by, for all the good it did him now.
If he could get to another inn, he’d … what?
Try to convince the innkeeper that he wasn’t an escaped murderer?
What good would that do? Even if he succeeded, the cultists might well decide to slaughter everyone there, and he’d just be adding more innocents to the toll.
He looked over his shoulder again. They hadn’t gained by much, but they weren’t falling back, either.
Lather was already starting on Greathoof’s neck and even though he would run until he died if Edmund asked, what good would it do to ask?
Perhaps if he reined in now, Dog Violet would be able to collect him again.
No. Not yet. There’s an inn down here, it can’t be very far, and the inn has to have a well and I can throw the sword into the well and even if they kill me, they won’t get it out easily. Maybe that will be time enough for Sarkis and Zale to figure something out.
He looked up from Greathoof’s neck, looking for the distant shape of the inn, and instead saw a wagon on the road ahead.
A big wagon. Solid wood with small barred windows, the sort that prisoners were transported in. And there were guards around it, too, four of them on horseback, and they had swords and armor.
Prisoner transport meant law enforcement of some kind. He didn’t dare to hope they’d help him, but maybe he could muddy the waters enough that they wouldn’t help the cultists either.
Edmund pulled Greathoof up as he reached the wagon and cried, “Sanctuary! Help me! Those men killed my friend and they’re trying to kill me, too!”
The guardsmen had turned to watch him as he came riding up. Curiosity gave way to astonishment. “Please,” Edmund gasped. “Please, help me!”
“What’s all this, then?” said one of the guards, turning his horse to come alongside Edmund. “Who are you and what’s going—”
The cultists reined in their horses, since the alternative was to crash into the wagon. “Don’t listen to that man!” the one in the lead snapped. “He’s a murderer evading justice. He killed a woman in cold blood.”
The guard who appeared to be in command looked from the cultists to Edmund. “Is that true?”
“No! They kidnapped me and once I escaped, they—”
“He’s lying. He stole that sword and killed our—”
“I did nothing of the—”
“One at a time,” barked the commander, in a voice that would have made a rock snap to attention. The resultant silence was broken only by Greathoof’s labored breathing. “Now. You. What’s your story?”
“They kidnapped me,” Edmund said. “My friend came to rescue me, but they killed him. I don’t know anything about a murder.
” Inspiration seized him. “Here, look at this sword. It’s not real.
You can’t stab somebody with it. You can’t even draw it.
” He passed the sheathed blade to the commander.
The cultists twitched visibly as it exchanged hands.
“You’re right, it doesn’t draw. Also it looks like somebody’s put bacon grease on it?” He raised an eyebrow at Edmund. “There are much better ways to oil a blade. Although if it’s not really a blade, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“Please,” Edmund said desperately, “keep hold of it. It’s meant to go to the Temple of the White Rat in Archon’s Glory.
It’s vital that Bishop Beartongue get it.
She’ll know what to do with it.” At least, she will once she talks to Zale.
I hope. But maybe now the guard will think I’m a spy for the temple, and that’s better than being a murderer.
“He stole that sword from us,” one of the other cultists shouted. “He’s a murderer and a thief.”
“We’re on the way to Archon’s Glory, as it happens,” the commander said slowly. “I think perhaps taking this whole mess to the temple is a good idea—”
“No!” yelled another cultist.
And drew his sword.
The scrape of metal against leather was suddenly louder than anything else, except perhaps the beating of Edmund’s heart.
“Don’t be stupid,” the commander said, staring at the cultist. “You don’t want to do anything that you can’t take back, son.” His own hand was on his sword hilt, but he hadn’t drawn. Neither had his companions.
Four versus five, Edmund thought. But the guards have better armor, which might help, or might not.
Do they know how to use the swords, though?
If they’re watchmen from another city, they could be amazingly well trained or they could just be there to fill out numbers.
But the wagon’s blocking half the road and Greathoof is blocking the other half, so the other two might not be able to get around in time.
Oh Many-Armed One, please, please, please do something, please have mercy …
The cultists were clearly doing the same math he was. The leader settled his hand on the pommel of his sword.
And then, into an agonizingly fraught silence, a voice from inside the prison wagon said, “Friend-Edmund, is-that-you?”
“Large Francis?” Surely this was impossible. He was hallucinating. There was no way that he could have stumbled onto the pillbug, who was … “Francis! Are you a prisoner?”
“No-friend-Edmund-I-am-quite-comfortable-but-I-have-been-assured-that-this-is-the-easiest-way-to-pass-through-customs-unharmed.”
“That’s wonderful,” Edmund said. “I thought they’d have found you earlier—”
“Yes, well,” said the commander hastily. “Refitting a prisoner transport takes a little time, even for the Rat.”
Clearly sensing that the odds of Edmund being handed over were sinking rapidly, the lead cultist moved his horse forward, his eyes fixed on the sword that the commander was holding loosely in his off hand.
Uh-oh.
Edmund was arguably a brilliant scholar, a decent human being, and (he hoped) a sensitive lover.
What he was not was a warrior. There was no point in asking what the Dervish would do (kill everyone) or what Sarkis would do (kill everyone) or even what Dog Violet would do (bite someone very hard then vanish into the undergrowth).
But scholarship was not going to get him very far in this exact moment, so he would have to make do.
“Look behind you!” he shouted. “A barnacle pigeon!”
There was a split second when everyone was staring at him, open-mouthed, and no one was moving. Edmund launched himself off Greathoof, snatched the enchanted sword out of the commander’s hands, and jammed it through the bars of the window. “Francis! Grab it!”
The Dervish could have made it look easy. Edmund made it look horribly awkward, jammed his knee on the landing and fell over on his ass with the sword still sticking halfway out of the prison wagon.
The commander cursed, looked down at him, looked up, saw all the cultists drawing their swords, and cursed again. “Grab it, grab it,” Edmund pleaded from the ground.
The lead cultist spurred his horse forward. The commander ducked under a swing and drew his own weapon. The Dervish’s sword vanished into the cell and Edmund prayed he hadn’t just doomed them all. Two more guards came up from the sides, crashing through the ditch, to engage the enemy.
Another cultist locked eyes with Edmund and started forward. Edmund rolled under the wagon.
The door of the prison creaked.
Edmund rolled to the far side of the wagon, came up, found that one of his knees no longer held him, and clutched the wall as a wave of pain obscured his vision. From the direction of the melee, something hissed.
A wave of silence spread across the road like a palpable thing. Then a horse screamed in terror and bolted and voices that had been full of bloodlust rose an octave and turned incoherent.
Edmund limped around the edge of the wagon and saw the guards trying to restrain their mounts and the cultists fleeing, either because they couldn’t control their horses or because they had decided that fleeing was a truly excellent idea.
Large Francis, who had braced her lower legs in the door so that she could stretch up to her full massive height, settled her carapace with a rattle. “I-hope-that-was-the-correct-course-of-action, friend-Leon,” she said. “They-did-not-seem-interested-in-further-negotiations.”
Leon, who was apparently the commander, got his horse turned away from the pillbug, dismounted, and murmured to it until it began to quiet. “It was a good course of action,” he said finally. “Unlike your friend’s, here.” He glared at Edmund. “That little stunt nearly got us all killed.”
“I know,” Edmund said guiltily, “but I couldn’t let them get the sword, and if they attacked you, I was afraid you’d drop it.”
“Hmmph. That sword better be pretty damn important.”
“More than my life.”
“… Right.” He sighed, a man clearly confronted with something above his pay grade. “In that case, young man, I suppose you had better come with us, and we’ll let the Rat sort it all out in the end.”