Bartholomew set arrow to string. Red and Dog-Ears took threatening steps toward Alain, staffs raised, hesitant only because of the growling hounds. Their amulets dangled at their chests.
Their amulets.
That stink of vinegar held the key.
“Do you know how Father Benignus sustains himself?” Alain cried.
“Kill him!” shrieked Willibrod from the wagon.
“It may be true that none of you die when you attack the poor and the helpless. But you fight among yourselves, and Father. Benignus punishes those who break the peace. And when that man dies, his soul is captured by the amulet. When this man—” He gestured toward Willibrod. “—takes that amulet, he soaks it in water and drinks that man’s soul. It gives him life for another day or another week. He feeds on you now. He drew you together only to use you. He bears no love for you. He cares nothing for any hardships you may have once suffered, nor does he care what cruelties you inflict upon others. He lives for no reason except his own hunger. In the end, he will kill you all.”
“Kill him!” shouted Willibrod, but the bandits held still, whispering each to his fellow, fingering the amulets, lowering their bows.
“Or I will kill you!” shrieked Willibrod. “Eloie! Eloie! Isaba—” Bartholomew let the arrow fly.
It ripped through the tattered robes. Willibrod spun backward and slammed into the tent. Canvas ripped as the frame splintered, but he flailed and righted himself, still standing despite the arrow protruding from the center of his chest. He raised his hand to call down the curse.
“Eloie! Eloie!”
Sorrow leaped and got his leg in her jaws. The force of her bite overbalanced him. He staggered. With a horrible shriek he tottered, spun his arms, and lost his footing. His robes fluttered and his veil streamed open; he fell and hit the ground hard as Sorrow, yelping in pain, scrambled backward, shaking her head from side to side as though she had been stung. She buried her muzzle in the dirt.
Silence followed, hard and heavy. No sound of birds, no murmur of wind in the trees, no noise at all broke the unnatural hush.
Willibrod did not move. Around the camp, voices whimpered in fear. An infant squalled and was hushed by its terrified mother.
“Ai, God,” said one of the men.
His voice shattered the spell that held Alain. He knelt beside Willibrod and plucked at his robes. The body beneath shifted, clacked, and rattled. What was left of him? Although Alain sniffed, he smelled nothing like the stench of putrefaction, only a hint of that vinegary tang. Bracing himself against the awful sight he might see, he lifted away the veil and hat to reveal a grinning skull, jaw agape.
Willibrod was gone. Only his skeleton remained, darkening where sunlight soaked into pale bone.
Rage leaped, growling furiously, and Sorrow lunged.
Too late Alain sprang up. A staff smacked into the side of his head. He went down in a heap, hands and legs nerveless, paralyzed by the blow, while all around him he heard the snarling battle of the hounds, outnumbered, and the screams and cries of the bandits, closing in.
“Go,” he murmured, commanding the hounds, but he had no voice. His head was on fire, and the rest of him was numb.
Why had he turned his back? Even for that one moment, thinking that all of them were shocked by Willibrod’s death and disintegration; even that one moment had been too long. Anger and grief boiled up. What had he done to his faithful hounds? Better that they run and save themselves. He stirred, fighting to get up, to protect them, to save them.
A second blow cracked into his back, and a third exploded in pain at the base of his neck, this flare of agony followed by a long, hazy slide as he was caught in the current of a sparkling river flowing toward the sea. Now and again he bobbed to the surface, hearing voices but seeing only a misty dark fog.
“He knows what we are! He knows what we’ve done! I say we kill him!”
“Kill him! Finish him off!”
“Nay! Hold, there, Red! Put down your knife!” That was Bartholomew, speaking quickly. “What profit is in it for us if we kill him?”
“We must be rid of him!” That was Dog-Ears. “This Lord Arno will be after us soon enough, if what this cursed one says is true. We’ll have to abandon camp. We’ll have to run, even split up. I say we kill him.”
“Kill him! Kill him!”
“We could gain coin and bread if we sell him at the slave market with the women. He’s strong and healthy. He’ll bring a good price from the Salian merchants.”
Where were Rage and Sorrow? He could not see, nor could he hear any trace of them. Ai, God, were they dead? Had the bandits killed them? He had been careless, such a fool, to turn his back even for a moment.
The current caught him and dragged him under.
XXI