The Skeleth Read online

  One of the villagers stood aside from his place at the mark to let Edmund step up. “So, then, Edmund, tell us another story from your books, there.” Short, shaggy-bearded Nicky Bird flipped an arrow end over end, catching it in one hand, then the other. “Come on, a good one with some great fancy wizard throwing his spells about.”

  “I told you before, spells don’t work the way you think they do.” Edmund set his left foot at the mark. “True magic is a way to see the laws that rule the world, to find the balance of things, the opposite natures of which all is made, and then—”

  Geoffrey snorted. “What did I tell you? He doesn’t make a lick of sense anymore.”

  Edmund sighed. “All right, then, a great fancy wizard.” He sighted down to the target. “There’s Mad Mull of Millthwart—it’s said he worked out a spell that could scythe a whole field of wheat with a wave of his hand.”

  “Now, that one can’t be true—aim up a bit, Edmund. Here.” Martin Upfield loomed in—head and shoulders taller than Edmund and more than twice his weight. He shifted Edmund’s arms and turned his shoulders. “There, try like that.”

  “Seems to me that any man who could do a spell like that could just give out all the bread he likes—set himself up for a king, somewhere.” Nicky drank deep from a cowhide waterskin. “That’s just an old wives’ tale, it has to be.”

  “No, it’s true.” Edmund held the shaft of his arrow with his thumb, just as he had been taught. “I’ve read about it in too many different places.”

  “Hunh.” Nicky Bird scratched at his curling beard. “So what happened to him?”

  Edmund released—the arrow skipped off the top of the target. “There’s more than one version of the story.”

  “Let’s hear ’em all, then! The one I like best will be the true one.”

  Edmund plucked up another arrow. “Well, the first is that one day he stood on the wrong side of the field.”

  “Ha!” Nicky nudged Martin. “Hear that? What’s the other?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated.” Edmund did not like the look of the arrow in his hands, an old broadhead with a crooked shaft. He drew up another. “So the story goes, the spell worked perfectly, made him as much wheat as he wanted, any time of the year. He was able to balance the cost on the Wheel of Substance by—well, never mind that part. He started bundling up bushel after bushel and bringing it in to the cities by the wagonload.”

  Nicky shrugged. “And?”

  “The bottom fell right out of the grain market. Not a farmer in the land could sell his crop for so much as a brass farthing. Riots in the streets—death by pitchfork.”

  “Ha!” Nicky turned to Martin and nearly stabbed him with the arrow in his hands. “Ha! You hear that?”

  Martin swatted the arrow away. “I heard it. Stop poking me.”

  Edmund drew back another arrow. He considered trying to explain the third version of the story, the one that sounded as though it might be true. He gave it up for too tangled to tell—how could he explain what magic really cost if the wizard abused its power? He would rather not be cut in half by an invisible scythe, but by the same token he would not like to die by inches inside, consumed from within by bread that was no longer really food.

  “I don’t know, Edmund.” Gilbert Wainwright stepped in above the end-nock of his bow to fit a new string at the next mark over—nearer to thirty than Martin and Nicky, but by all accounts the follower of the three, ever since they had been boys together. “I hear your tales about these wizards working marvel after marvel, and yet here we are, still plowing our fields by muscle and sweat. Our king’s no wizard, our lord’s no wizard—don’t see how those stories can be true and the world still be the way it is.”

  “That’s because you don’t know how magic works.” Edmund waited for a lull in the wind. “You don’t know what it costs, and you don’t know what the world is really like.”

  “Hey, now, Edmund, no harm meant.” On a face like Gilbert’s even a look of reproach seemed mild. “Not trying to tell you your business.” He turned to aim his shot, seeming to take but an instant to gauge arc and wind before he loosed and struck square in the middle of his target.

  “No one’s going to argue with you about what wizards can do, Edmund—not anymore.” Nicky turned to watch Edmund’s following shot. He tutted and shook his head. “You shanked it a bit. Are you keeping your fingers wide on the string?”

  “Of course I am!” Edmund grabbed another arrow. He nocked it, taking care to space his fingers around the flights. He drew to the ear, sized up the target, and let fly.

  A familiar sinking feeling followed. Geoffrey started snickering behind his back well before the arrow landed—in the grass beside the target.

  “Well, the wind took that one. Nothing you could do.” Martin Upfield raised his hand, looking up and down the row. Gilbert did the same, then Aydon Smith, Jarvis Miller and old Robert Windlee, who must have been five times Edmund’s age but could still hit the target without fail. The shooting stopped, and then Gilbert walked out with a few others to gather up the arrows.

  “Never mind it, Edmund.” Martin gave Edmund an encouraging smile. “We all know you’ve got other things you do well.”

  “The Wizard of Moorvale. Hey? There’s our lad.” Nicky prodded Edmund’s side. “Why don’t you work on that scything spell? Be a big help at harvest next year. It’ll be our secret!”

  A voice piped up shrill from along the row. “You there, with the hat. What’s your name? Speak up—Hugh Jocelyn, Jocelyn, yes—let’s see your arrows.”

  Edmund looked up to see a small and well-dressed party passing crossways behind the archers. He felt a thrill of sudden fright and stuffed the Paelandabok into his sack. Lord Aelfric rode his horse beside a black-haired young clerk who recorded the name of every man at the practice. Lord Wolland followed with Wulfric and Richard Redhands, who were both armed as though they were about to ride to war.

  “Ah, the fabled archers of Moorvale.” Lord Wolland signaled for his knights to dismount with him, then walked along behind the row of men lined up at the marks. “Let us see if the legend bears any truth.”

  “You shall indeed, my lord.” Aelfric stepped to the ground and put his reins in the hands of the page. He walked right up behind Edmund, coming so near that he nearly trod on the sack that held the book Edmund had stolen from his private chambers.

  Edmund felt a bead of sweat roll down from the line of his hair. He kept his gaze away from the nobles behind him, waiting to fire on the signal. He tried to think only about the wind, and not about what Lord Aelfric did to thieves.

  “You there, churl!”

  Edmund jumped. He whirled around, wild excuses at his lips, but Sir Wulfric was talking to Martin Upfield.

  Wulfric clapped Martin on his broad shoulder. “You are made for war. There is need of such men as you.”

  “Sir knight.” Martin turned and bowed. “I have no love for war.”

  Wulfric let out a short, hard laugh. “Come and seek me, or remain forever a fool.” He stepped back from the line of archers and stood in a tight clump with the other knights and lords.

  Henry Twintree called out from down the line. “Ready, all? Draw and aim!”

  Edmund nocked an arrow to his string, drew it back and waited for the signal to fire. Of all the torments of archery drills, the massed volleys were the least painful to him, since no one could ever quite be sure if the arrow that missed the target was his.

  Henry Twintree bellowed. “Fire!”

  Edmund loosed his arrow with the volley. Dozens of arrows whipped in an arc through the sky, shuddering into their targets in a deadly swarm.

  “Ha!” Lord Wolland clapped his pudgy hands together. “Well done!”

  Edmund stared about him at the green. Not one of the arrows had missed the target. Not even one—and that meant that he had hit. He h
ad actually hit!

  “Very good indeed.” Lord Wolland nodded to Lord Aelfric. “I have always taken an interest in archery. It is of great use on the battlefield, if properly deployed. I seem to recall that your grandfather used a company of archers to good effect in a battle not far from here, when my great-uncle Adalbert thought to invade.”

  “You remember rightly, my lord.” Lord Aelfric faced south and pointed out with all the fingers of his gloved hand. “The battle took place in that direction, in a field just east of Longsettle. My grandfather concealed a troop of archers from Moorvale in a copse of trees by the road. They passed unnoticed by Adalbert’s scouts as they took the field, then fired on the flank of his army once the battle was joined, causing great damage.”

  Lord Wolland turned to Wulfric. “What do you think of such a ploy, my son?”

  Wulfric’s face turned sour. “I do not like it, Father. It was unmanly. There was no honor in such a victory.”

  “It was war, sir knight.” Aelfric shot a hard look at Wulfric. “Honor lies with the innocent. Those men fought and died to keep their homeland free of pillage and ruin.”

  Lord Wolland laughed. “Oh, now, that is unfair, my lord!” He swept out a hand to the line of Moorvale men. “My great-uncle would have used these people well enough. Indeed, by now they would think themselves Wollanders, and all would be well with the north after all. But for my part, I call it well played, one for the histories. You have inherited quite an asset in these levies of peasant archers, and you are wise to keep with the tradition.”

  “I thank you,” said Aelfric. “Your great-uncle did not live to know of it, but his campaign had pushed my grandfather to his last strength. Those archers swung the battle and the war, and their children’s children practice at the targets once a week because I know it full well.”

  “You see, Wulfric?” said Wolland. “Useful stuff, archery. We must train up a company or two. Oh, don’t pull a face, I won’t make you do it. Perhaps good Lord Aelfric would be so kind as to lend us a troop of his best peasant bowmen to help us get things under way.”

  He turned his smile back on Aelfric. Hatred crackled between the two lords, in silence but with such force that Edmund felt the urge to slip away out of sword distance.

  “My lord, I fear that I must deny your request.” Lord Aelfric did not sound as though he regretted refusing Wolland in the least. “The men of Elverain train at the targets to defend their homes and families. That is the only right use of war.”

  “I would have thought you above such a trite and commonplace idea, my lord.” Wolland’s deep eyes glittered. “In all my years of life, I have discovered but one useful truth: Bold action in war sets a new order for the ages. In battle, in war, in daring attempt, is the life of a man exalted. Fortune, yes, but moreover fame, glory, a hand in the shaping of the world. Through deeds in war a man lays the path on which the future wanders. His children rule, while the children of other men bow and serve. The king upon his golden throne: What is he but the echo of a better man who drew up his plans at a rough-hewn table? Through deeds in war, a man carves himself into the memory of the world.”

  “It is not for us to decide who is to be remembered and why, my lord,” said Aelfric. “My archers will defend their homes as their forefathers have done, against any who come to challenge them.”

  Lord Wolland’s smile only grew. He took a small but deliberate step toward Aelfric. “There are forces against which a storm of arrows are but a gently falling rain.”

  Lord Aelfric was the taller man; he drew himself up into the image of what he must have been like in his youth. He loomed over Wolland. “Show them to us, my lord, and we shall put that to the test.”

  The hands of knights and men-at-arms drifted toward the hilts of their swords. Edmund glanced along the row of archers. Not a few of the village men had nocked an arrow to the string and stood tensed, ready for anything.

  A muffled groan from along the row broke the silent tension. Edmund turned to find his father stumbling up to the mark beside him with his bow and quiver.

  Harman Bale puffed, red at the cheeks, one hand held over his side. “Am I late?” He dumped his bow and quiver on the grass, spilling out his arrows. “Not late, am I?”

  “Here, Harman, have a sit down for a while.” Martin Upfield took Edmund’s father by the elbow and tried to guide him away from the archery range and over to a seat in the grass. “You look half done in.”

  Edmund’s father pushed Martin away with his free hand. “Curse it all, I’m not an old man yet!” He stumbled and seized his side again.

  “Not yet, Harman Bale.” Old Robert Windlee eyed him up and down. “And maybe not ever if you prance about with a half-healed belly wound.”

  “Father?” Edmund moved to brace up Harman’s other side. “Are you sure you should be out here?”

  Harman grabbed for his longbow. “Don’t you start with me, boy.” He lowered his voice. “Those are nobles over there, Edmund, almost every man of substance from here to Paladon, and our lord Aelfric’s showing off our skill for them. I’ll be tied and tossed in the river if I let that Henry Twintree hog all the credit for every bull’s-eye we hit.”

  He stepped into his bow, straining to bring the string up to the nock—then he groaned and let go.

  “Look out!” Edmund leapt from the path of the whippy bowshaft as it sprang across the grass, striking Sir Richard Redhands square in the face.

  “Ow!” Richard Redhands grabbed for his nose. “By all thunder—ow!”

  Lord Wolland stared at his knight, then burst out laughing long and loud, slapping his thigh in noisy mirth. Wulfric took it up in his father’s echo, and then a few chuckles sounded up and down along the line of archers. Richard Redhands turned in a fury and charged straight for Harman Bale.

  Edmund had time for a single thought—if a blow should land, it must not strike his father. He threw down his bow and arrows and stepped out in front Richard Redhands. “Please, sir knight, my father’s wound is still fresh. He received it defending my mother’s life from a cowardly attack. Surely a gallant and honorable knight such as yourself would understand, and forgive.”

  “Boy—out of my way.” Richard Redhands stepped sideways, making to go around Edmund and get to his father.

  Edmund blocked his path. “You must not strike him, sir knight. His wound has not yet healed.”

  The knight set his teeth. “I said out of my way!”

  Edmund braced himself. “No.”

  The force of the blow sent him spinning, then falling. He landed hard upon the earth.

  “Son.” Edmund’s father shook his shoulder. “Edmund?”

  Edmund rubbed at his jaw. His vision blurred and doubled. He reached out his other hand to push himself up; Richard Redhands trod on it, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Lord Wolland stepped between Richard and Edmund. “Not now.” His smile remained fixed, but his eyes bored deep. He dropped his voice low, low enough that Edmund, who lay at his feet, could only barely catch the words: “Not yet.” He turned his back on Aelfric, leading his knights away across the green. It was only after his party had gone out of bowshot that Edmund felt safe enough to get to his feet.

  Chapter 20

  Tom put his hands on the chill stone of the battlements. The sun stood high over the pass, casting white-gold in the valley. The many chances he had taken came back to him in twinges, in bursts of belated fear at all that he had risked, and images of all the ways things could have gone so very wrong. They seized at him but found no purchase. Nothing had gone wrong—not yet, at least.

  “Here, my lord.” He reached back for Tristan’s arm and led him to the edge of the wall. He leaned out to look down—the drop fell sheer into the dry scrub of the moat far below. The horses abandoned by the brigands wandered in a pack, grazing on the green outside the castle with their leads trailing behind them.


  “You must travel with the greatest caution.” Tristan felt out for the top of the wall before him. “You will be riding down the very road the Skeleth took out of this valley, and there is no telling where they will strike first.”

  Tom reached back to haul the carven box up onto the battlements. He fumbled it and dropped it onto the flagstones of the walk behind the wall. It swung open, revealing the plain smoothness of its interior, a box like any other, save for what it had once held.

  “It’s all so very dark to me still, my lord.” Tom righted the box and latched it shut. “I don’t understand war, or politics, or anything lords and wizards might plot or do.”

  Tristan drew in a long breath, then puffed it out white into the chilly air. “Whenever we felt lost, in the old days, John would give me this advice. Number the points of your confusion—it will at least show you that they are not numberless.”

  “What little I know, my lord, amounts to a bundle of sticks without the twine to bind them.” Tom joined Tristan at the battlements. He looked off amongst the trees that ringed the green, as though he might find his answers lurking in between the trunks. “I know that the brigands who seized your castle were hired by the lord of Wolland. I know that Lord Wolland is working with the wizard woman who opened this box, letting out creatures who took over the bodies of John Marshal and the men from your village. Those creatures can’t be killed, for if you stab one, you only slay the man inside, and then the creature takes you, instead. The wizard woman led the creatures east, back up the road to settled country, but for what purpose? And why would a man, a mortal lord, want to loose such an evil on the world?”

  “Here I can be of some help,” said Tristan. “When old king Bregisel won the war to claim the kingdom thirty years ago, he saw fit to create me a lord of the realm. He granted me dominion over Harthingdale—but Harthingdale had long fallen into disuse, its castle abandoned and its people fled. When I arrived, I found that casket you hold buried deep within the dungeons below. It was Vithric who explained to me what I had found, and the terrible danger it portended.”