The Lesser Devil by Christopher Ruocchio

Author:Christopher Ruocchio [Ruocchio, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B0852RDGDH
Published: 2020-04-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Lord of Hosts

They came in the middle of the morning, moving slow. The peasants had lookouts stationed along the valley and in the mountains around, and if Crispin understood Jean-Louis correctly, they actually whistled to one another, imitating the sounds of various birds. Thus the signal sped ahead of the host at the speed of sound and human reckoning, and came over the low limestone walls of St. Maximus and rang out across the village.

Crispin climbed the short stair to the top of tower on the town’s outer wall where Kyra had set up the old plasma howitzer. His shield flickered about him, and faintly he beheld similar distortions around the elderly captain. The cannon stood ready behind her, the feet of its three legs digging into the soft mortar between the stones. Above them, a striped awning snapped in the wind. Someone had set it up above the tower top and made the place a kind of patio, and they had set the cannon here for the flimsy protection that awning provided, as it shielded them from the eyes of the enemy above.

“You shouldn’t be up here, my lord,” she said. “It’s too easy a target. You should stay back by the church.”

That was true enough, but Crispin shrugged. “I wanted to see.”

“They’ll be coming around the horn there any second, monsieur,” said one of the villagers, a dusty, dark-haired young man of perhaps seventeen. He was one of the very few who hadn’t gotten a weapon from the stores in the catacombs, and he leaned upon his rifle as an old man does his staff. He lowered his hand then, having indicated a low, jagged white mountain that rose from the surrounding red hills like a fang from the gums of some giant.

Crispin looked at him, recognizing familiar features in the tanned skin and curling black hair. “You’re one of Jean-Louis’s family, aren’t you?”

“Oui, monsieur,” the boy said. “He’s my fourth cousin.”

“There sure are a damn lot of you.”

“We Albés are one of the largest families in the vale.”

Lord Marlowe nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “That so? What’s your name, boy?”

“Edmond.”

“Edmond,” Crispin repeated, “I like it. Good strong name. And how old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

Feeling a bit like a fool, Crispin echoed the lad again. “Fifteen,” he said. So young. “I killed my first man at fifteen. I hope you don’t have to.” “I hope I don’t have to, too, monsieur.” The boy swallowed, eyes downcast. “I don’t want to go to hell.” Crispin and Kyra exchanged a look, both guessing that this strange remark had something to do with the boy’s odd religion. But young Edmond seemed almost to have forgotten they were there, for he babbled on. “I would though. Go to hell. If it meant saving everyone. I’d call that a fair trade.” He cradled his gun more tightly, as if reassuring himself that it was still there.

Kyra slapped Crispin on the shoulder. He rounded on her, a rebuke half-formed on his lips.

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