Free Best Laid Plans by D.P. Prior Page B

easternmost suburb. It was a play area, judging by the wooden climbing frames and the knotted ropes hanging from the branches of trees encircling the camp. Further down the hill he could see the orange glow from the windows of the locals’ cabins. Most had their own smallholdings and allotments; they were doing their best to live apart from the bustle of the city. Probably reckoned themselves amongst the lucky few now.
    No one had approached the knights in the two days they’d been in Lesmallen. At best they’d drawn suspicious glances, but mostly they’d been greeted by closed shutters and sullen silence. Lesmallen appeared to have escaped the worst of the plague, but clearly its residents were taking no chances. It was Barek’s guess that the locals thought the White Order was in the vanguard of trouble spreading out from Sarum’s centre like a cancer. Maybe they were right, he thought, but what choice had they had? They’d already lost four more men to the hordes of walking dead as they’d ridden clear of the chaos, and if they fled beyond the city walls, they’d have to answer for the attack on the Imperial troops.
    ‘That’s my job, milord,’ Dave the Slave said, snatching the basinet from Barek.
    The old hunchback had followed them up from Calphon where they’d passed him squatting in the gutter, clearing dead leaves from the drains. Barek shook his head and felt his face tightening in a wry smile as he realized he’d used the nickname the lads had given the bloke on account of his insistence that he do all the menial chores around camp. At first they’d tried to send him away, but when he hung around they’d offered to pay him. Dave would accept nothing. He just kept groaning about penance and touching his brow in the Nousian manner.
    ‘Sit yourself down, Dave,’ Barek said. ‘You’ve been on the go all day.’
    Dave stooped over him and twisted his neck to see better. He was mostly bald, but long strands of hair hung like twine over his shoulders. His forehead was a craggy overhang, the eyes beneath glinting with a feverous intelligence. His face reminded Barek of a horse’s—long chin, flat nose, and lips that were thick and drooping, opening like a clam to reveal the stumps of yellow teeth. He was dressed in a sack-cloth tunic and woollen trousers that stank like the furred-up pig shit Barek’s dad used as compost.
    ‘The Demiurgos loves an idler,’ Dave muttered, giving the basinet a polish with the hem of his tunic.
‘Ora et labora,
I always says. It’s hard work that paves the mountain path to Araboth. I’ll bring your helmet back in the morning, polished clear as glass. Anything else I can do for you? Nice sizzling sausage? Hunk of crusty bread? How about I groom your horse and pick the grit from her shoes?’
    Barek raised a hand and forced a smile. ‘You’ve done more than enough, Dave. Get some rest. You’ll need your strength in the morning.’
    Dave’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew back in a snarl. He thrust the basinet under one arm, turned away from Barek and limped towards the camp.
    ‘Can’t please some people, eh, sir,’ Solomon said, stepping from the gloom like a ghost.
    Barek suppressed a pang of irritation. The boy—Solomon had just turned sixteen—had shadowed him ever since the flight from the templum.
    ‘I was about to grab some kip,’ Barek said, pointedly rolling out his blanket.
    Solomon crouched down, eyes fixed on the thin strip of red that was fading from the horizon.
    ‘Me too, sir. Just thought I’d see if there’s anything you wanted me to do.’
    What was it about people wanting to do things for him? Barek gritted his teeth and forced himself to relax.
    ‘Just get some sleep, Sol. There’ll be plenty to do in the morning.’
    Solomon nodded, rocking on his haunches. ‘Sir,’ he drew in a big gulp of air. ‘Back there at the templum…’
    ‘You did good, Sol. We all did.’
    The lad pushed down on his thighs and stood. ‘I was scared,