The Multitude, стр. 32

Quintus knelt and washed the dust from his face with blessedly cold water. He gulped straight out of the canal before filling his canteen. When he stood, he found Bertramus lingering rather than helping his men dig the graves. “Tell me why I’ve been summoned.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “You know how Albus loves his little surprises.”

“Give me a hint.”

Bertramus tried to turn away, but Quintus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “You and I are old friends.”

They locked eyes for a long moment before the lieutenant relented. “You’ve been summoned to a wedding.”

“Summoned from the front for a wedding?”

“Not just any wedding. Albus’s wedding.”

Quintus stalked away. Either that or strangle the man.

“Where are you going?” Bertramus asked.

“I saw a hoe in the field. It’ll make a good club.”

“I’m only the messenger.”

“Then here’s your message. Tell Albus you never found me.” Quintus shaded his eyes to look west across the baking prairie. One day’s ride and he’d be back where he started. Two days and—

“We shoot deserters, Quintus.”

“Even the king’s brother?”

Bertramus slung his canteen over his shoulder and headed toward the men. “Act surprised when Albus announces his wedding, or I’ll be the one getting shot.”

Quintus turned east and sighed. Given his blood ties, he could have been stationed wherever he wanted, but he’d chosen a distant scouting assignment to escape Albus. He and his brother had always been like oil and water. The situation had worsened when birthright crowned Albus king and elevated the man’s ego to the clouds. Still, maybe his brother had turned a new leaf.

Marriage. He’d never expected Albus to grant any maiden the honor. In the past, the man had taken and discarded woman after woman without regard to the virtue he’d ruined each time. Perhaps a visit was in order.

* * *

Several hours after bidding the soldiers farewell and continuing his eastward trek, Quintus again enjoyed a cold splash of water. He’d come upon a spring-fed fountain within the square of a ramshackle town. He used cupped hands to drink his fill.

He’d packed his military cape in his saddlebag earlier when the sun had grown too hot. Now he unbuttoned his shirt, stripped it off, and lowered his upper body into the pool. After a long moment, he lifted out and felt human again.

A scream pierced the all-too-brief moment of peace. He hurried to a group of eight ragged monks who’d formed a circle around a golden-haired angel of a young woman dressed in a floral shift and silver sandals.

The zealots surrounding her had murder in their eyes.

He’d come across their kind in other settlements, men who carved out a station by terrorizing the local populace into following an ancient creed of purity and sacrifice. Like the others, these men had shaved their heads, and also like the others, their long robes probably concealed the scars of self-scourging.

The woman quaked in their midst with fists clenched, chest heaving, and terror in her eyes. “I’ve done nothing!”

He worked his way into the circle and nudged the man on his left. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s about traveling gypsies whoring in our god-fearing town!” The monk sprayed Quintus’s face with his angry words, then bent to a small pile of stones he’d gathered at his feet. A quick glance around the circle revealed similar stashes collected by the others.

The irony of fate never failed to amaze him. Two law-abiding settlers might have been spared a flurry of arrows had he and the others arrived an hour earlier. But no, destiny decided he should risk his life saving a gypsy, instead. Backing away wasn’t an option he could consider. Any man unwilling to protect a maiden was no man at all.

He took three long strides into the center of the circle, wrapped an arm around the woman’s waist, and turned with her, slowly, looking each man in the eye. “Who among you hasn’t lusted for a woman? According to your creed, the thought is as great a sin as the deed, is it not? Maybe you should stone yourselves.”

Fear—a welcome friend—made his voice tremble. He’d always known a dose of it during battle and perhaps he’d stayed alive for that reason. Fear could keep a man from underestimating his adversary and getting his fool head knocked off. Although Quintus had a weapon, these monks, all larger men, had him surrounded and could strike from his blind sides. The element of surprise might be counted on to freeze them at first, but he couldn’t rely on them to stay that way for long.

The giant of the group, a bear of a man, leered at him with dark eyes bulging above too sharp a nose. His barrel chest heaved with each breath as if trying to burst free from the dusty robe constraining it. “You won’t enjoy our answer, sinner.”

The others shifted closer, stones in hand.

Quintus pulled his pistol from his belt and aimed between the man’s eyes, struggling to hide the shadow of worry from his. None of the monks were armed as far as he could tell, but if they sensed any weakness in his resolve and chose to fight, eight stones thrown in unison would surely take him down. “What’s your answer now?”

The big man worked his jaw on a wad of tobacco. He shifted his glance back and forth to the men on either side of him, but the fight had gone out of their eyes.

The other monks started backing out of the circle.

Quintus released the woman. “Watch my back.”

“They’ve eased away. I’ll gather my things and—”

“Stay put.” He left her standing there, stepped up to the giant, and pressed his pistol against a bead of sweat on the man’s forehead. Those other monks in his range of vision had dropped their stones. He heard additional stones falling to the ground behind him in a series of soft plunks. Quintus could only hope the group would remain more frightened than he was. “I’m on the