The Gift of the Red Baron

  They camped in the Valley of the Grey Watchers for the night. It was in a tight spot between several large boulders on the northern edge, close to where they had ridden in and about as far from the stone circle as they could get. Far from the body of the dead spirit. Baron Matheller saw the long, laid out limbs, the bloody head and the cloak, part spiderweb, part rats' nest every time he closed his eyes. Dead Eot. He sat quietly by the fire while the rest turned in troubled sleep.

  War then. That was what it would come to. It would take them three weeks to get back to Bris. Perhaps, he could stretch it out to four, but the result would be the same. Baron Matheller, the lord of Bris, would call up men, and they would march under the banner of Philippe until the bastard was crowned king or they were all killed.

  Matheller rubbed his face, a few tears gathering at the edges of the man’s eyes. Then he clenched his fist and drove it down into the ground. The ground was hard, sharp, and his hand stung with pain. It felt right. He hit the ground again, again, letting the mountain take his fury and his fear.

  “Sire.” It was Sister Joan. She sat on the ground beside the Baron.

  Suddenly, Matheller felt childish. A grown man throwing a tantrum at night. The lords of Baidon were made of sterner stuff. He glanced at her, but she was doing him the kindness of not looking. The nun held her wool blanket around her shoulders and stared into the fire. She looked tired.

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the flames dance and dimmer. Until Baron Matheller thought to speak.

  “Why, Sister?” He said, “Why come with us?”

  She said, “You needed a scholar. Someone to decipher the records, and make sure…”

  “No, that was why I asked you to come,” Matheller said. “The abbot was terrified of the venture. You could have just as easily said no. You would be safe and well in Bris, enjoying a pleasant Spring. Tell me, why?”

  “This is the furthest I’ve ever travelled from Bris,” Sister Joan said. “I don’t make complaints about life in the abbey. It has been good to me, better than my birth could have ever given me. But I have read so much about the world, and seen so little of it. Men, even peasant boys, can travel across the world with armies of kings. Saints, I know of a one-eyed dung farmer who saw the walls of Jalkabad. There’s little opportunity for it in the pious life of a nun, Sire.”

  “Many of those peasant boys never return home,” Matheller said softly.

  Joan was looking at him now. “Is that why you started this quest?”

  Matheller didn’t answer. The silence stretched on until the nun was uncomfortable and broke it herself.

  “There is a chance yet, Sire,” Sister Joan said. “Fifelen. King Atheren’s second spirit. Perhaps we could find him and make an offering and a deal for his aid. Diod said that both spirits were bound by such offerings. If he is still alive, then he has been blessed with the Balance of Life like his brother. More time in Drun, or maybe there are records in Highvale, could reveal…”

  “I’ll stop you there, Sister,” Matheller said. “This little band has humoured the demands of an old, desperate man long enough. We’re lucky no one has died yet. Danner almost did. No. We’ll ride for Bris. Hopefully, the men are able to spend a little time with their families before I have to raise an army for Philippe. I thank you, Joan, for your service, and I apologise for the danger I put you in.”

  There were tears in Sister Joan’s eyes now, but she did not cry. The old, portly man squeezed her hand and went to find a spot to lie down.

  They had one last look at the body of Eot the spirit of Atheren, before they departed. Baron Matheller and Marshal Rudola alone. It reeked already, and the spiderweb cape covered all but the top of Eot’s matted scalp. The blood there was black and hard. The grey skin at the edge of the wound was furrowed and pus-filled. Neither man had much to say, and they were on their horses, riding out of the Valley of the Grey Watchers shortly after.

  Baron Matheller led the way on the back of Gast. Marshal Rudola rode at his side, and behind them were the men at arms, with the exception of Danner, who sat in the cart at the back of the procession, nursing his broken leg. It felt as if he were already leading them to battle. The lord at the front, troops following behind, and at the back, the baggage train. It was an appropriate metaphor, Matheller thought, and hell, they already had some wounded in the form of Danner, who was probably trying to flirt with the nun.

  The mood was subdued and quiet. Most of the noise came from the huffing of the horses, and the huffing of the men when they had to dismount and guide the animals up the more precarious slopes of the Beorgens. More than a few times, they had to go back and help push the cart. Marshal Rudola spoke a little to the Baron, alternate routes back to Bris, and the lords that they should visit on the way. There was even a little prediction of battle strategies. Matheller didn’t entertain many of the conversations or agree to visit any of the lords, and soon enough, Rudola stopped talking about them. Afterall, even the Marshal had a wife and a few tots waiting for him at home.

  By noon, the sky was bright and clear. The riding and climbing had made the day feel hot. A cool breeze wafted between the peaks. It was a welcome relief as it played with the ends of Matheller’s red cloak. They had just risen out of a saddle between two crests. The snow here was thin, and in patches replaced by soon-to-be-budding heather and tall shoots of grass. This stretch had been easy riding. Matheller and Rudola had gotten ahead, and they waited by their horses as the others made the climb. Gast crunched away at a rapidly disappearing piece of carrot in the Baron’s hand.

  “Say what you will about the blasted thing,” Baron Matheller said. “But at least the damn horses have stretched their legs, and my fat arse too.”

  “I’ll second that.” Rodula chuckled dryly. “A pity about Danner’s leg, though. He’s a fine swordsman and a good rider. I hope he makes a full recovery.”

  “He’s been doing quite the talking with Sister Joan,” Matheller said, patting the side of Gast. “Can’t be that bad. Tell me, what was it I said would happen to them if they caused trouble with the nun?”

  “Oh, I think it was something about having their cocks chopped off and delivering them to the abbot in a…” Marshal Rudola paused suddenly. “Sire. Sire, do you see that?”

  Matheller turned around and looked down the ridge to where the Marshal was pointing. It was a brief spot passing between the rocks. Could have been a goat jumping across the ridge’s steep side. Then, as it came out onto the open ground of the saddle, Matheller saw it in full view. It was a man. No, too big to be a man at that distance. It was a giant with a grey cloak trailing in its wake. It was old, hungry, dead Eot charging towards the cart.

  “On Saint Briht’s breath,” Matheller said. “Damn us all.”

  The Baron hauled himself onto Gast, crouched above the saddle and kicked hard at the white charger’s flanks. Matheller and Marshal Rudola galloped down the crest, the easy slope suddenly becoming precarious as they moved as fast as the animals would carry them.

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  “Behind you,” Rudola called. He drew his sword and pointed it. “Defend the cart!”

  The men at arms stopped, Danner’s riderless horse kicking up in excitement. They wheeled around, fumbled for their weapons, faces a mixture of fear and confusion. By the time they had turned, Rudola had ridden through the group with Matheller hot on his heels. The cart was further still, about halfway across the ridge.

  “Louis!” Matheller yelled. “Watch out. Behind you. Watch out. It’s Eot!”

  The Baron’s voice echoed across the mountains. Louis’s mouth was agape, face suddenly turning pale. He was confused and motionless, only awakened to the danger when Sister Joan’s high scream brought him back to reality. Eot was upon them.

  The creature roared, brought a hand down to grab Danner out of the back. Matheller saw the warrior’s one good leg kick up at the hand. He was done for, except Sister Joan hit Eot’s hand with the hatchet that Louis kept in the cart. It hit strangely, the flat side cracking against the giant’s hand. But it brought enough time for Louis to sink his dagger into the Eot’s arm.

  Eot pulled back, Danner forgotten. He lashed forward and grabbed the groom. There was a brief moment of struggle. Louis hacked at the giant’s hand before Eot lifted the man up and bit his head clean off.

  Matheller felt sick, then angry. Louis of Bris was dropped to the snow, dead. The ground flattened out. Gast galloped faster. The gap between them was closing. Eot turned his attention to Sister Joan, who threw the hatchet at the giant. The hatchet just missed the creature’s ragged ear. Before Eot could take her, the Baron and Marshal entered the fight. Rudola scored a bloody line across Eot’s ribs. Matheller swung low and hacked into the creature’s thigh as he charged past. Eot stumbled, falling onto its hands.

  The rest of the men were charging now. Talber, Grune and Horace riding hard, their mission was clear. Their mission was clear for the second time in just as many days. But there was no time for that thought now. As they got to Eot, the creature pushed itself back up and snarled. Talber’s horse was the first to falter. It whinnied and broke sideways, its rider barely holding on while the animal lurched. Then Grune’s stead bucked him off, kicking its front legs up. Eot raked its claws across the animal, gouging out a chunk from its chest, and then the giant fell upon the rider. Grune was torn to shreds before he could get back to his feet. Horace cursed, stopping his horse short of the mark.

  Matheller and Rudola wheeled around, saw the chaos.

  “They’ve lost the momentum. We charge again, then, Sire,” Rudola said.

  There was no anger in Marshal Rudola’s face. Other men became furious when victory was not easy. But Marshal Rudola had the cold, fateless look of a man who had accepted whatever came next. Matheller nodded.

  “I am with you, Rudola,” he said.

  “And I, with you always, Sire,” Rudola said.

  Together, they kicked their horses and charged towards Eot. Matheller cut Eot just after Rudola stabbed him, the Marshal losing his sword in the creature’s chest in the process. It was not as clean this time. Both men turning their horses faster to get back into the fight. Eot grabbed the cart, and before Matheller and Rudola could advance again, he flipped it over between them and him. Gast and Rudola’s horse faltered. The draft hose was thrown over, and Danner barely made it clear, jumping from the thing and landing badly on one leg. Sister Joan screamed in pain as she was pinned beneath the barrier.

  Eot turned on Talber now. The man was still having trouble with his horse and was unable to raise a capable defence before the giant caught him with an awful swipe in the chest that sent him from his horse, dead when his head cracked against a sunken rock. Horace was the last man left on that side of the cart, and leapt from his scared horse sword in hand.

  “Sire,” Rudola said. “Get the nun. I’ll distract the creature.”

  The Marshal took his horse around the cart, the animal less certain now that it wasn’t charging, as Matheller got down and hefted the cart up a few precious inches. The nun scrambled out, her robes torn and bloody.

  Matheller picked his blade back up, about to join the Marshal in the fight on foot, when he saw Rudola die. Eot bit into the man, the Marshal now armed with only his dagger, hacked away at Eot’s shoulder as the life drained from him. Horace followed shortly after. Eot pouncing on the lone swordsman. The creature crouched over the man, his head whipping wildly side to side. When Eot turned around to face Matheller, there was a bright splash of blood around the creature’s lips. He licked it with a thick purple tongue and smiled hungrily at the Baron.

  Suddenly, Matheller felt ill, he felt… He felt the Balance of Life tilt. The sword Marshal Rudola had sunk into Eot’s chest was pushed out and clattered onto the ground. A large tumours growth spurted from where the wound had been. Eot walked towards him.

  The Baron was not scared, but overcome by the great numbness of his own death. It was almost silly. This was how he was going to die. He would be eaten by the very spirit, the very being he had been chasing. Matheller chuckled, perhaps hysterically. He heard the panicked sounds of Danner and Sister Joan behind him, but they did not mean anything now. Then he had a though and it was a strange thought, silly, ridiculous and terrible all at once. Then he thought of a joke, and it made the Baron laugh even louder.

  “You can’t be King Atheren’s Eot,” Matheller said. “Herbs and grain and squashes for an offering? I haven’t seen you eat anything but flesh. We hauled that shite all the way from Bris! From Bris, and you haven’t even used it to garnish us. Judging from your cape, you ate all the rats and spiders in that thing and didn’t even touch the pumpkins.”

  Eot drew closer. Something about the Baron’s own calmness had slowed the creature.

  “No, you’re the wrong damn spirit, aren’t you, Fifelen?”

  The creature cocked its head at that and then smiled even wider.

  “Yes, Fifelen,” the Baron shouted. “But tell me this, did I not deliver you an offering? You’ve had it today. Strong men, fine horses. Flesh and blood that’s your offering, isn’t it? Then I command you to make good on your oaths. I demand the same oaths you made to King Atheren. After all, I carted them all the way here. You will aid me.”

  “Sire,” Sister Joan said. “We can’t make a deal with this thing after all it has done. You can’t.”

  Fifelen looked at her, its cowlike eyes narrowed.

  “Shut up, child,” Matheller said.

  He turned back to Eot. It pushed the cart out of the way and was now within a yard of the Baron. Around them lay the dead horses and men he had ridden with from Bris with. Around him, the Baron’s offering.

  “You can have them too,” Matheller said. “They are a small price to pay to replace the army of Bris. But first, kiss the ring. I have travelled to your land to make an offering that you find pleasing. Now you must show proof of your oath to me.”

  Fifelen took a knee. The Baron was completely in its shadow now, and it stunk of rot and the putrescence of continual life upon life upon life. Up this close, he could see the moss that grew in Fifelen’s armpits and the bugs that marched across its skin. By the Baron’s feet, a small meadow sprouted from the snow. Gast was making a ruckus behind the Baron, whinnying in distress, but unwilling to come closer. The other two were in fearful silence.

  Matheller held out the back of his hand for Fifelen to kiss his golden signet ring. “Seal the oath, Fifelen.”

  The creature puckered its lips. They were large and sloppy and mottled purple, but they never touched the Baron’s hand. Matheller brought his sword up and across Fifelen’s outstretched neck. Blood spurted from its cut veins. His next strike was across the creature’s eyes. It howled, and Matheller ran. He felt the wind at his back as the creature blindly lashed out, almost catching Matheller by his red cape.

  “Get him on to Gast,” Matheller yelled at Sister Joan.

  She snapped to action and helped Matheller heave Danner up onto the horse. The Baron mounted and then said, “You too, Sister.”

  The load was heavy, but Gast was a charger from Bris and carried them up to the crest with fury. The Baron made them get off at the top. He looked down at them.

  “Find Danner’s horse,” he said. “Then ride out of here and save yourselves. I may be able to put the creature down again and buy you a night of peace. I may not. But whatever you do, don’t stop until you get to the Weards Tower. Saints protect you both.”

  Then Matheller whipped Gast’s reins and dug his heels into the horse’s flank. And that was the last Sister Joan saw of the Red Baron. He galloped down the slope on the back of a brilliant white charger, with his sword raised against the foe, Fifelen.

  Matheller lay in a patch of purple mountain flowers, surrounded by snow, surrounded by blood, surrounded by dead friends and their dead steads. The air was pure, and the sky a fine blue with pearl-white, mountainous clouds that grazed the peaks of the Beorgens. It was magnificent. He enjoyed the view between painful, short breaths. His legs were completely numb, crushed beneath Gast. The white charger lay on its side, motionless.

  Silly horse. Matheller tried to crunch up, reached out with a hand to pat the horse’s neck and wake the animal. He couldn’t. His chest cracked and scraped. His shirt was red, the colour of hearty wine. Saints, Matheller thought to himself, have I been drinking again? There was something he was meant to be doing, but it was such a nice day. It could wait. Matheller closed his eyes.

  He was woken by a light tap on his shoulder. It was bright, and the Baron squinted. There was a short, dark silhouette of a boy standing between him and the sun. Matheller smiled up at the lad. A word played on the tip of the Baron’s tongue. It was a name that he hadn’t said out loud in a long time.