Shadow

Monach smiled. 'Sansory,' he said.

'How do I know you aren't leading me into an ambush?'

This time Monach managed to laugh, though the sound was more like the shrieking of crows. 'I suggest you follow your instincts,' he said. 'Or you could pray for divine guidance. Tell me, do you ever dream about crows?'

Cronan frowned. 'No,' he said. 'At least, I don't think so.' He nodded to the duty officer. 'General muster,' he said, 'quick as you like. Then I'd better see the captains of division, and you can get me the bigger map of the Bohec valley, the old one with the cart tracks on it. And get a messenger off to Sansory, tell them to shut the gates.' He turned back to face Monach, who'd slumped back in the chair. He looked like a sack of old junk dumped carelessly in the corner of a room. 'You're really a sword-monk?' he asked.

Monach laughed. 'What's left of one,' he replied. 'It'd be nearer the mark to say that you could make up a whole sword-monk out of me and a dozen yards of bandage.'

'Fascinating,' Cronan said. 'I've never met a sword-monk before, at least not to talk to; I've seen a few of your lot strutting about in the background at big receptions and temple services, but that's all. Were you really sent here to kill me?'

'Yes.'

'Oh. Why?'

Monach shrugged. 'There was a reason. Probably. Will you settle for God moving in a mysterious way?'

'No,' Cronan replied, 'but if you don't know, you don't know, and there's no point badgering you about it.'

Monach nodded. 'You believe me, then. That's good.'

'I haven't got the time or the energy not to believe you,' Cronan replied. 'If I wasn't so busy, maybe I'd have the guards beat the truth out of you with big sticks, but the secret of being a good general is keeping your priorities straight. What made you change your mind about killing me?'

'Who said I changed my mind? But first I've got to save Sansory.'

'You've got to save Sansory?' Cronan smiled gently.

'That's right. And I've got to use you to do it, since I can't think of any other way of going about it. I'm allowed a certain degree of discretion, as a senior field officer and honorary deacon.'

'Interesting,' Cronan said. 'You remind me of me. Do you think I'd have made a good sword-monk?'

'No,' Monach replied. 'You're a bit too tall, and you'd have difficulty with the theoretical side. The secret of being a good sword-monk is the ability to concentrate on meaningless tiny details at the expense of the main issue.'

Then the doctor arrived, with four orderlies and a stretcher; they lifted Monach out of the chair and laid him on his back. 'Thank you,' he said, just as they were about to carry him away.

'My pleasure,' General Cronan replied.

The cavalry went on ahead. Not that they'd be any use against the raiders, or much good against the specialist horsemen of the Amathy house (who paid better and weren't so fussy about rules of engagement and plunder), but they could find out what was going on and report back, which was rather more important.

General Cronan's coach had shed a wheel the previous day, and the wheelwrights hadn't got round to fixing it, so he rode at the head of the baggage train, in the same cart as the wounded monk. For some reason the monk found this highly amusing, though he also seemed to feel that no good would come of it. Two large crows followed them all the way.

A scouting party from the main cavalry unit reported in, saying that they'd ridden past Sansory (which was still there, and yes, they'd sent a detachment to check the gates were shut, and they were) and carried on east towards Deymeson; about four miles short of the town, they'd seen columns of smoke in the sky directly above where the abbey should have been. No, they hadn't had sight of the raiders, but on the other hand their orders had been not to engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary, and they didn't want to risk disobeying those orders by going any further… The main body of the cavalry had fallen back to guard the east-west road, with skirmishers out deep on either side, given the raiders' apparent tendency to come across country whenever they could.

Cronan spread out the map on his knees-the wind tried to tug it away, but a couple of guards jumped up and held the corners down-then sent word down the line that they'd be missing out Sansory and heading for-he glanced down to read the name-Vistock, a village roughly halfway between Sansory and Deymeson. 'We won't bother looking for them,' he explained, 'they'll come looking for us. Or they'll just vanish into thin air and turn up somewhere else next month. At any rate, they won't attack the city with us at their backs.'

It hadn't taken long for word to spread through the army that they were on their way to fight the raiders, and the sergeants were having to shout and call time to keep up the usual pace. That was understandable enough, but annoying, and the general's temper started to fray. This was unusual enough to provoke further doleful commentary up and down the column, until the sergeants had to order silence in the ranks, which didn't do much for morale. At this point some captain or other thought it might be a good idea to get the men singing, to cheer them up and quicken the pace. He didn't take the trouble to check with the general first, assuming he wouldn't want to be bothered with such trivia. The men were in no mood to sing, but they couldn't disobey a direct order; so they sang: Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree, Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree, Old crow sitting in a tall thin tree, He'll make his dinner of you and me.

'For God's sake,' Cronan shouted, standing up on the box, 'tell them to stop making that bloody awful noise.'

The monk, who'd been asleep for some time, opened his eyes. 'Now there's a tune I haven't heard in a long time,' he said.

Cronan looked down at him. 'You know it then, do you?'

The monk nodded. 'Used to hear it a lot when I was a boy. It's a very old song, I believe.'

'Really,' Cronan said. 'How would you know that?'

The monk coughed painfully. 'I'm a scholar, don't forget,' he said. 'First recorded as a marching song in the reign of Tercennius, which I hardly need tell you is over four hundred years ago, and the text implies it was an old song then. A commentator from the reign of Cadentius-a mere two centuries back, which makes it slightly suspect, but he could well have been drawing on earlier sources-says that it refers to the defeat of Sclerus Acasto by the south-eastern nomads, which would put it back nearly six hundred years; far-fetched, perhaps, but by no means impossible, since another popular marching-song, "Lady With the White Felt Hat", can reliably be dated to the accession of Loriscus, nearly seven hundred and fifty years ago. Which goes to show, soldiers like the old tunes best.' He closed his eyes again. 'Amazing, isn't it, the garbage that makes it down the centuries intact. Did the doctor happen to say how he rated my chances?'

Cronan looked away. 'Not good, I'm afraid,' he said. 'But not hopeless either. There's some internal bleeding-'

The monk shook his head. 'Doesn't matter,' he said. 'I knew I'd be too late to save the order. Even if I hadn't been, you'd never have risked your army for us. I expect you're glad we're out of the way.'

'Well, they did send you to kill me. A man can take offence at that sort of thing.'

'There was a very good reason for it,' Monach replied, 'though of course they didn't explain it to me. We act in the best interests of the empire. Always.'

'Really.'

Monach nodded. 'Properly speaking, the best interests of religion, but the one includes the other. The idea was, since we're free agents and dedicated to the greater good, we can do the difficult, unpopular things that emperors and governors and generals daren't do. It's a privilege and a responsibility. We're well aware of the implications.' He started coughing again. 'At least, we were,' he said. 'But then the god in the cart showed up, and here we are, the end of the world. Arguably, that's why I had to kill you, to make sure the world came to an end. I mean,' he went on, turning his head a little, 'it'd be ridiculous if the armies of darkness were defeated, just because the dying empire happened to throw up an unusually talented general. It'd make a mockery of religion; what my old tutor used to call an abomination. How being destroyed would be good for the empire I couldn't rightly say, but I don't suppose I have all the facts at my disposal.'