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

Chapter 3b

When Bannus reached the camp, he lifted the shattered great helm from his head and handed it down to a servant. The sound of his booming voice drifted to them across the rubble, words lost in the distance. Servants scurried. The lord with the silver horn mounted his warhorse, and four of the servants scrambled to load a donkey with packs.

"What's he up to?" Captain Gren muttered.

Several men on the wall called out and pointed at something moving at the top of the rubble pile. A pair of servants peeped over top and ducked back down. From behind the cover of a huge slab at the crest of the rubble, the servants erected a tall white pole. The pole was as long as a lance and supported at its top what looked like a round white tray of wicker, about the size of a warrior's shield. When fully erect, the tray would face the sky, as if to catch rain.

The captain cursed. He aimed his spitfire, but the servants kept their heads behind the slab.

When the pole stood fully erect, contents of the tray became visible. Three blackheart dove decoys adorned its edges, variously roosting, head under wing, or feeding with head down.

"A dove trap," the captain muttered. "They aim to intercept any messages meant for us."

Harric chewed his lip. Could such a trap catch the doves he sent to the Queen? If his doves had been intercepted, then the Blue Order knew nothing of their danger, and there would be no rescue. A pit of doubt opened beneath his stomach as he glanced back at the ruined dove tower beside the gatehouse. Wisps of white smoke still rose from parts of its blackened skeleton. All the doves had perished in that fire, so they could send no more messages to the Queen.

Harric brought his spitfire to his shoulder, sighted the dove trap, and squeezed the lever.

The flint hammer sparked and the spitfire bucked, coughing out a resin wad that screamed across the air like a flaming comet. The fireball corkscrewed wildly and missed the dove trap to disappear behind the rubble pile.

Several of the fort guards cried out in dismay, despite the captain's orders.

"You know what immortals do to those who use fire against them?" Farley said. "The—they say—"

Harric handed the smoking spitfire to Farley and picked up the boy's unused weapon. A glance at Captain Gren confirmed the old guard merely watched, his face unreadable.

"You damn us all, bastard!" Lane choked.

"We smashed his army last night," Harric said. "You think we aren't damned already?" Harric sighted the dove trap again, and squeezed the lever. The spitfire bucked like a mule, but its wad sped more true than the first, only dipping right before it hit. The wad clipped the underside of the tray, splashing it with fire and showering burning resin below.

"Yes!" Harric shouted.

Behind the trap, the servants scrambled from cover. One of them tore off a burning shirt. Harric noted shock on their faces, and imagined it was because they hadn't expected anyone to dare use fire in the presence of Sir Bannus. As the servants wrestled the trap from its moorings, a shower of burning resin shook loose and rained upon them, prompting curses and yelps. They could replace the trap, but good decoys would be hard to find. And burning resin sent an important message: We have spitfires, and we intend to use them, immortal prohibitions be damned.

Several guards on the parapet cheered. Lane glowered. The man beside him, a pale-haired sack of bones with sunken eyes, muttered something to Lane.

"Pass guard!" Gren called down the battlements. "Show Bannus we have plenty more resin where that came from!"

A handful of spitfires popped and coughed and belched out fire. Lane and his skeletal companion aimed theirs without firing, but if Gren noticed, he said nothing. Flaming comets sizzled across the air to splash across the rubble or soar over the trap. Loopy smoke trails hung in the air between the rockfall and the fort. The dove trap blazed like a torch as the servants lowered it out of sight behind the rubble.