The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 8a

...Sir Kogan was a formidable lancer in his day...competing with knights of the Blue Order and Willard himself, when he wasn't drunk or breaking horse backs by vaulting into saddles...a great loss to the sport when the god abducted him.

        —Sir Willard, quoted in Tourneys of the Golden Age , by Lord Billus

*

*

OLD FRIENDS & NEW DANGER

*

Harric bolted to his feet, cheese flying. Willard and Caris scrambled for weapons, scanning the trees for enemies. Brolli, who customarily slept in the saddle during daylight hours on the road, cast off his sleeping blanket; glancing about, he squirmed from the straps of his saddle.

"A witch-walker!" Kogan bellowed. From the shore he grabbed up a sun-bleached tree trunk the size of Harric and whirled to face the willows as if something pursued. "A witch-walker! I seen it in the trees! Went in to pipe a leak and there it was, staring at me like a god-touched statcha!"

Brolli leapt from the saddle, already clutching a globe of witch silver in one hand and a painted war club in the other. "What is the word statcha?"

"A statcha! Carved from stone to look like a man—"

"Statue!" Harric said.

"—only this one were made outta clay and sticks like a drunk potter made it, and it walks like it got no knees, or it would've catched me!"

Brolli stared. He lowered his club and barked out a laugh.

Willard cursed.

"That's Mudruffle," Harric said.

"Mud and wattle he is!" the priest roared, "and I aim to make him kindling!" Kogan gave the limb a couple mighty two-handed swings, and weapon sang an ominous whuh! with each.

"Put down the tree, Kogan," Willard growled.

"Reckon a club is right for it, Will. It's made o' mud and sticks, so a club oughta—"

"A friend, Kogan. He's our friend." This time the knight's words had an edge of menace. "It's the white witch's servant, and a friend." Willard turned impatiently to the willows and shouted, "Mudruffle! Show yourself! It's safe!"

Kogan stared at Willard. Confusion twisted his thick brows. "A friend? An Iberg witch toy—a friend?"

Willard's eyes narrowed. Harric imagined he saw a flash of residual Blood rage in his glare. "Mistress Abellia is one of the few Sisters of the White Moon that the Queen has licensed in Arkendia. She is a friend of the Queen's. Therefore she is a friend of mine, and a friend of yours if you have a brain in that thick skull. Abellia's tower stands in a grove of fire-cones that produces much of the Queen's resin, and her magic snuffs lightning before it can set off the fire-cones. I encourage you to consider the importance of that resin in our war against the Old Ones before you murder her servant."

The priest's brown eyes turned to flint. His voice shook with fury. "I abide your chimpey friend, Will, because he ain't a magus. He's just an ambassador. I abide him because the Queen needs an alliance with his people, against the Old Ones." Kogan's hands gripped the club like he would twist it into splinters. "But there ain't no treaty with the Ibergs. And I won't brook no shambling witch-walker made of sticks and rubbish. I won't do it, Will. I'll crack it to pieces."

"We aren't yet sure it is Mudruffle we speak of," Brolli said. He lifted his weapons again. "Might it be some other creature?"

Mudruffle's weirdly horn-like voice bleated from the brush. "It is I!"