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Authors: T. C. Rypel
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She cursed him and caught up the rolling fruit like a starved predator. Salguero strode from the room, but she followed close on his heels.
“Are we finished then, Hernando?” she asked breathlessly.
“Leave me alone.”
“Will you throw me out into the snow? Any of your subordinates would be happy to take me in.”
“This is your father’s house,” he replied in a flat tone. He began to dress and gather his belongings.
“Even the warlock—even Domingo Negro himself—would be glad to have me, I think.”
He trained on her a look so full of smoldering contempt that she faltered in her tack. She eased back against the doorpost of their bedchamber, looking over the golden granadilla thoughtfully. When she spoke again, there was softness in her voice.
“You’ve been dreaming of your wife again.”
Salguero stiffened. “Eat your…magic apple before you say something we’ll both regret. I will, anyway.” He donned his half-armor and strapped on his rapier. Then he began working on a black wheel-lock’s priming pan.
“Your former life is gone, Hernando,” she whispered. “I thought a soldier accepted the fortunes of war.”
“We’re not at war with France.”
Anita drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you something. And you must swear to tell no one where you heard it.”
He looked up from the pistol and eyed her curiously.
“This fruit,” she went on, “it comes from Domingo Negro’s own magic grove. There are many more wonderful things there, in the valley near Castle Malaguer. Things that could be ours, if only you’d finish your campaign and kill the warlock. Hasn’t the king commissioned you to rid us of this unholy sorcerer? Haven’t the holy men sanctioned it? The Inquisition heats its irons in wait of the Archmage’s evil flesh.” Her eyes shone, huge and gleaming like a doe’s. She moved near and laid her hands on his chest.
“Do this thing,” she breathed, “and untold wonders will be ours.”
Salguero knew not what to say, but her words evoked a primal terror and dread he’d not felt since last he tilted with the warlock’s forces.
There was a knock at the front door. The captain opened it to admit a somber Sgt. Carlos Orozco. Salguero’s friend since childhood entered with a terse greeting. He declined Anita’s offer of refreshment, nor would he lock eyes with the woman, for whom his disdain was well known. Only when she had left the two men alone would the sergeant speak his business. His voice was thick with irony and resignation. The way a man speaks when he no longer believes in what he does but can do nothing about it.
“I’ve made the rounds, checked the outposts, for what it’s worth.” Orozco extracted a bandanna from a pocket of his cloak. He dabbed at the frost-melt in his drooping mustache as he spoke. “No blood in the streets. No night fiends about, so far as I can tell. Maybe we were lucky, eh? Of course, only half the posts were attended. Maybe the others are dead, or dragged off to be eaten by—but the only way I can tell is with a roll call. Do you want me to have them fall out from the inns and their adopted beds or whatever—?”
Salguero shook his head morosely. The sergeant turned away, directing his voice at the wall as he went on.
“This business with Montoya—the slovenly bastard. He’s a troublemaker, Hernando. You know what I’d do with him, if I were in command.”
“No. Place him under guard. Suspend all pay and privileges.”
Orozco grunted. “A leave of absence for him, then.”
A tense silence passed between them. The sergeant selected two pistols from Salguero’s small arsenal and began loading them.
“Time to mount another patrol, I think,” Orozco said airily.
“Don’t do it, Carlos. Don’t bother.”
“Someone must.”
“I need you here. You’re my only…link to sanity.” There was faint pleading in the captain’s tone.
“Don’t come apart on us. You’re too good a soldier, too fine an officer, to
“Are we finished then, Hernando?” she asked breathlessly.
“Leave me alone.”
“Will you throw me out into the snow? Any of your subordinates would be happy to take me in.”
“This is your father’s house,” he replied in a flat tone. He began to dress and gather his belongings.
“Even the warlock—even Domingo Negro himself—would be glad to have me, I think.”
He trained on her a look so full of smoldering contempt that she faltered in her tack. She eased back against the doorpost of their bedchamber, looking over the golden granadilla thoughtfully. When she spoke again, there was softness in her voice.
“You’ve been dreaming of your wife again.”
Salguero stiffened. “Eat your…magic apple before you say something we’ll both regret. I will, anyway.” He donned his half-armor and strapped on his rapier. Then he began working on a black wheel-lock’s priming pan.
“Your former life is gone, Hernando,” she whispered. “I thought a soldier accepted the fortunes of war.”
“We’re not at war with France.”
Anita drew a deep breath. “I’ll tell you something. And you must swear to tell no one where you heard it.”
He looked up from the pistol and eyed her curiously.
“This fruit,” she went on, “it comes from Domingo Negro’s own magic grove. There are many more wonderful things there, in the valley near Castle Malaguer. Things that could be ours, if only you’d finish your campaign and kill the warlock. Hasn’t the king commissioned you to rid us of this unholy sorcerer? Haven’t the holy men sanctioned it? The Inquisition heats its irons in wait of the Archmage’s evil flesh.” Her eyes shone, huge and gleaming like a doe’s. She moved near and laid her hands on his chest.
“Do this thing,” she breathed, “and untold wonders will be ours.”
Salguero knew not what to say, but her words evoked a primal terror and dread he’d not felt since last he tilted with the warlock’s forces.
There was a knock at the front door. The captain opened it to admit a somber Sgt. Carlos Orozco. Salguero’s friend since childhood entered with a terse greeting. He declined Anita’s offer of refreshment, nor would he lock eyes with the woman, for whom his disdain was well known. Only when she had left the two men alone would the sergeant speak his business. His voice was thick with irony and resignation. The way a man speaks when he no longer believes in what he does but can do nothing about it.
“I’ve made the rounds, checked the outposts, for what it’s worth.” Orozco extracted a bandanna from a pocket of his cloak. He dabbed at the frost-melt in his drooping mustache as he spoke. “No blood in the streets. No night fiends about, so far as I can tell. Maybe we were lucky, eh? Of course, only half the posts were attended. Maybe the others are dead, or dragged off to be eaten by—but the only way I can tell is with a roll call. Do you want me to have them fall out from the inns and their adopted beds or whatever—?”
Salguero shook his head morosely. The sergeant turned away, directing his voice at the wall as he went on.
“This business with Montoya—the slovenly bastard. He’s a troublemaker, Hernando. You know what I’d do with him, if I were in command.”
“No. Place him under guard. Suspend all pay and privileges.”
Orozco grunted. “A leave of absence for him, then.”
A tense silence passed between them. The sergeant selected two pistols from Salguero’s small arsenal and began loading them.
“Time to mount another patrol, I think,” Orozco said airily.
“Don’t do it, Carlos. Don’t bother.”
“Someone must.”
“I need you here. You’re my only…link to sanity.” There was faint pleading in the captain’s tone.
“Don’t come apart on us. You’re too good a soldier, too fine an officer, to
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