by Rypel, T. C.
“Eh? What’s that?”
“Their innocence. They won’t be the same now that they’ve spilled blood. The war has begun.”
Gonji nodded, but it was not of the militia that he was thinking.
If he killed, the transformation would occur each night....
CHAPTER TWENTY
They rode into Vedun early in the evening, King Klann under heavy Llorm guard but apparently in good spirits. The main town hall had been decorated to celebrate the event, and the citizens had even fashioned a modest effort at pomp and ceremony, a band on the rostrum striking up a military tune as Klann rode by. People cordoned along the sides of the streamered Street of Hope watched, with general decorum, in their best attire. Some even threw blossoms in the column’s path, a symbol of hoped-for peace.
We’ll see, Captain Sianno thought. He sat aboard his destrier in dignitary array but with weapons at the ready. He mopped his brow discreetly and licked his beaded lip as they pulled up before the city meeting hall, liking this not at all. The king was being very foolish, and what could be accomplished? The farther he stayed from these people, the better off he was.
The troop dismounted, and Sianno ordered the bearers to set down the palanquin so that Mord could disembark. Damned sorcerer postured as if he were king. If Klann weren’t counting on Mord’s aid during the spring voyage after Akryllon, the aides might be able to talk him into dispensing with the conjurer. There was something terribly wrong about him, the way he divined things in advance.
Sianno stayed at Klann’s side during the entrance and seating ritual. The banquet aromas hung appetizingly about the hall. The Llorm quietly but efficiently inspected the environment for evidences of deceit, any possible threats to Klann’s well-being. A network of Llorm dragoons and footmen patrolled the area without, surrounding the hall. No one—nothing—could get in or out.
The greetings were long and tedious. Sianno scanned all in attendance closely for concealed weapons, any kind of trick, the slightest twitch that might reveal anxiety over a hidden threat to the king.
Flavio; Milorad; the protege, Michael; their holy woman, Tralayn, looking subdued for once; Garth Iorgens and his son, the Exchequer—a wearying parade of local dignitaries. And only Garth had aroused a flicker of real interest in the king.
“A splendid display of goods for the castle,” Klann was saying to the crowd. “You’ve done well, indeed. This crop failure, whatever caused it, has been overcome by your diligent efforts and, I’m sure, some belt tightening.” Strained laughter. “It’s all well appreciated, I assure you.”
The leaders seemed anxious to have the festivities done with so that they might speak. Klann, in turn, seemed eager to talk with Garth, frequently casting him nervous glances. Whatever he had to say to him must be important, for him to risk coming among these devious people. Could he be planning to offer him a commission again?
No. Never. Their alliance was precluded forever.
Gaily clad women who had prepared the food now fussed about the king, trotting out their concoctions for the head table at which sat Klann, his retainers, and the local leaders. Bright-faced, freshly scrubbed children from the city were employed in the tasting ritual that assured no threat of poisoning to the king. During this time Sianno excused himself and moved to Garth’s end of the table, where he engaged the ex-Field Commander in a muted chat.
“Iorgens, for past favors, I’ll advance you this: His Majesty comes principally to see you. I think he’ll want to ask you what’s afoot in Vedun. Will you answer him true?”
Iorgens looked mildly miffed, Sianno thought, as he responded: “What’s afoot is that people are dying inside to know what’s become of their loved ones. Those taken without provocation and held as hostages. What’s happening to these people, Sianno?”
The captain was stung. He suspected, as did all at the castle, that they were being foully used somehow by the accursed sorcerer. Yet it was for some purpose that was to benefit the king, and with his sanction. And they had their allegiance to Klann—all there was to live for, to a people without a land to call their own.
“They’re needed,” he answered sternly, “for the king’s service. That’s all a conquered people need know. The king’s will is law, and his followers will die to uphold it. You used to believe that, Garth. Once you were willing to die for Klann’s will, isn’t that so?”
“That was a long time ago...another king...another me.” Garth turned away, the strain of time and other burdens—things Sianno cared not to probe into—knitting his brow.
The captain returned to his place.
“...my mother made it herself!” a freckle-faced red-headed boy was telling the king as he took his seat.
Yes, that’s wonderful, child, Sianno was thinking, but let’s get on with it, shall we?
Even the sorcerer seemed on edge as he surveyed the hall. As usual there was no place-setting before him. What did he eat?
Sianno banished the thought.
Then the food was dished out from the children’s serving trays, “none of them having fallen dead in the generous time allotted,” as Klann’s chief steward was given to say in his sardonic manner. Klann sampled a little of everything, commenting to each child and frequently to the preparer of the dish, as well. Klann’s rare displays of magnanimity to a conquered people were always the most wearisome days of duty, Sianno decided. And tonight he was playing the benevolent monarch to the hilt. I wonder what—
The piercing scream from the kitchens off the hall proper caught everyone off guard, so lulled were they by the mood. The Llorm guards fisted their weapons as all lurched from their seats.
“The king!” Sianno cried. “Surround the king!”
The bastards were using some diversion to—
Two bodies came flailing, entwined, out of the kitchen, the faces of the nearest guards contorting as they watched what couldn’t be seen clearly from the bunched throng that now ringed-in Klann. The king pushed at his retainers to see what the trouble was, insisting that he was quite safe.
It was the red-headed boy. His mother struggled to hold him still, sobbing and muttering incoherently in a Slavic tongue. The child spun madly in her arms, gagging, making a terrible dry retching sound. She shrieked for a surgeon, calling out the name “Verrico! Verrico!” repeatedly.
Then the boy slammed into a table facing them, and they saw.... His face was bright purple, his tongue dark and protruding. His belly looked distended. No breath passed his lips. Yet it seemed as if he were grinning evilly somehow, even in his death throes. He lurched over the table and landed on the floor, stunned people scrambling to and fro in confusion. His mother pushed the table out of the way to get at him, but his body already sagged in death, his last breath escaping hissingly.
Soldiers filled the room as the dawning horror struck Klann’s retainers—
They backed away like helpless children, casting about for some idea of what to do, as suddenly the king clutched at his belly, looking down at it with awful understanding, then gazing about him, his face a twisted mask of pain and pleading. He gurgled once and lurched about in a sudden seizure, smacking the nearest retainer in the face. Then he fell behind the table as the Llorm rushed forward to bear him away, some calling for the city physician, while Mord spouted orders.
“Forget their doctor! They’re the ones who did this. Back away—give your king room to breathe,” the sorcerer shouted. “Prepare to leave this place. Mount the guard! Place this city under martial law!”
Then Mord ordered them all to back away from the place where the stricken king lay, including a reluctant Sianno, and bent low to attend him.
“Does he...does he die, Mord?” Sianno rasped.
“He dies,” Mord’s bass voice sounded like the closing of a crypt. “But he shall live again.” He straightened and began walking about the downed Klann in rapt fascination. “Get them all out of here—all of them!”
The wailing and confused citizens were pushed out by Llorm pi
kemen, the kitchens cleared of all help. Sianno caught Garth’s eye for just an instant before his former ally was ushered off. The captain’s hard glare brought no guilt in response from the city’s chief blacksmith. Sianno called out his orders. Then only he and a few advisers remained in the breath-stopped hall with Mord and the body of the late king.
Sianno saw Mord’s diamond-black eyes widen. He took two steps forward when he heard the first deep rush of inhaled breath.
“Stand back, Sianno!” But the captain crept closer, feeling the chilling crop of gooseflesh as the hand appeared over the edge of the table and the new figure rose shakily from the corpse of the king. Sianno held his breath in check.
Yes, yes, it was a man. A new king for Akryllon. Or would be. He wasn’t...finished yet, somehow. He seemed vague in outline, his features still settling. Sianno hadn’t seen the last Rising. It was truly as awesome as they had said....
“Ohhhh....” The new Klann drew long, deep breaths, appreciating the invigorating rush of life for the first time. “Mo—Mord—I—We...are four.”
“Don’t waste your new-found breath, my liege. There will be much to do soon.” The sorcerer bent and wrapped the strange, semi-solid residue of the transmogrification.
Klann felt his new face. “Ahhh, this sensation of...life...it—it is as wonderful as the Brethren have spoken, but...I’m still changing, still resolving, Mord—quickly! Get me a cloak to hide my face! None may see me until I do! Yes-yes...yes, my Brethren, it is as glorious as they say. Soon...soon you must all be free....” Klann drifted off into the near-catatonic trancelike state of communion with the Brethren that his followers knew so well.
Mord had a cloak brought to him. He wrapped the king in it. “The wretched curs,” Mord snarled. “They did this to you! I warned you of this. They’ll see the quest after Akryllon dashed—!”
“Enough,” Klann commanded. “To the castle. Hurry.”
Outside in the now lamplit streets, a terrified throng was pushed back by scores of Llorm dragoons. Both garrisons had been turned out, hundreds of soldiers now milling about in disarray, awaiting orders that would seal Vedun’s doom. The mercenaries, long since chafing for action, rubbed itching palms in their bloodlust, having no idea what was happening. Tales spread quickly that the king had been assassinated, but the old-timers allayed any fears of lost wages, Julian and Ivar keeping them steadfast in their duty.
All watched the mysterious proceedings before the hall, as fearful speculations passed in half a dozen languages. The king was dead, some said! People crossed themselves and offered tearful prayers against repercussion. Mord rushed the cloaked figure out of the hall, several guards ringing them in until they gained the palanquin. He moved the concealed figure inside, then ordered the city’s finest barouche delivered at once for his own use. The palanquin bearing Klann was sent off with the entire Llorm escort, while Mord remained to wait for the coach.
The sorcerer threatened them with all the terrors of hell, advising them to count, as precious, the hours of life left to them.
“You think Klann is dead?” he roared as he stepped up to the hastily procured coach. “Klann is the Invincible—long live Klann!” And with that, the barouche clattered off under mercenary guard led by Julian, leaving a strangled city in its wake....
Captain Sianno stayed back in command of the city garrisons. Mounted now, he stopped, wild-eyed and near-to-frothing, in front of the blank-faced Garth. “There’ll be hell to pay for this. Feel you nothing?” But Garth made no reply.
Tralayn and Flavio locked tortured expressions in the lambent torchlight, speaking not a word, but only supporting each other in their trembling grasps. Michael stood before the fountain with Lydia, stewing over a course of action in his capacity as a military councilor, ultimately deciding that nothing could be done to take advantage of this disorientation of Klann’s forces. They’d have to wait to see what the army did first. But—what in God’s name would they do? Lydia could only press against him fearfully, offering no counsel, her blue eyes wide with the innocent terror of life imperiled.
Garth watched the course of the palanquin long after it had departed, understanding, wondering, fearing the changes to come. The changes that always came, as the lore told. And Lorenz stood at his side, following his troubled gaze.
Alain Paille watched it all from the chapel belfry, eyes alight with fires of predestined certainty, the flames of epochal social change.
“Le roi est mort...,” he spoke to the indifferent night.
* * * *
Strom Gundersen sat among the rolling hills that marked his flock’s favorite pastureland, unmoved by the strife and trauma of political and social upheaval. He watched the agitated ride of the long Llorm column that bore the palanquin back to the castle, torches streaking the night in their wake. Only marginally interested in what the night’s tension bespoke, he idly played his reed pipe as they passed, legs crossed, one foot kicking in time to his tune. When they were gone from his view, he put up his pipe and gestured to the figure huddled in the brush that it was safe to come out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The bushi arrived back at the catacombs like seasoned conquerors, quickly forgetting their puzzlement over having had to slip in singly, with some apprehension, when the sluice gates failed to open at their appointed time.
Even Baron Rorka received the briefing of Gonji and Roric Amsgard with a quickened pulse and eyes that mirrored renewed hope. While the raiders tipped flagons to their success and engaged in back-slapping retellings of the foray, Gonji received the baron’s sincere handshake and congratulations.
“Prosit!—Na zdravie!—”
“Where’s Verrico?” Gonji asked. “Anton’s burning up with fever. Berenyi’s wound probably needs to be looked at, too.”
“He never came. None of the leaders did,” Rorka remarked gravely, pulling Gonji aside.
“No one?” the samurai pressed.
“Not even Tralayn. We know nothing of the meeting with Klann. I fear there must be trouble.”
“Mmmm.” Gonji waxed reflective, his brow furrowed with concern and indecision as he rubbed the exhaustion from his numb face. “We’d better get up there and see what’s happening. You prepare for the morning training shift. These men will take the day off to recover; they’ve earned it. I’ll be back later with the news from the city leaders. First we’ll assess what Klann had to say, then plan our immediate future.” Baron Rorka nodded his agreement, and Gonji moved back to the vibrant celebration. Berenyi, still rather ashen, was explaining for the third time how he lost his finger.
“Some of you men bring a litter for Anton. He and Stefan will see Dr. Verrico when we get to the surface.”
“Da, Gonji-Gunnar,” one of the men answered good-naturedly as a few of them moved off in response.
“Never mind that,” Gonji replied with mock indignance. “Don’t get so familiar until you can fight like Hildegarde.”
Anton was placed on the litter, and the band of about twenty-five passed through the massive iron-bound portal to the small cavern, used now for stores, that branched into the tunnels to the surface. Their ascent was laborious in their weakened state, but the mood was light despite their anxieties over the city. Talk of their victory and of the food and drink to come kept their spirits bright.
At length they arrived at the rear of Tralayn’s broad fireplace, and Gonji whanged a rock off the iron frame to signal that someone wished to pass through. They waited impatiently for a response, as security measures dictated. The passage behind the fireplace was tiny, cradled between two shallow chambers of the house, and it dropped off almost immediately to a steep stairwell carven from rock. On this most of the men were clustered, staring up into the grimy lamplight. The air in the passage rapidly became difficult to breathe, for so many.
“She must not be in—let’s go through—”
“Nein!” Gonji shot, startling them all. “Someone almost always guards this entrance now, whether she’s aro
und or not. Something’s amiss.” He thought a moment, raised the rock to strike again.
Then the pulleys and counterweights began to perform their smoothly oiled functions, and they all inhaled sharply, Gonji reaching for the Sagami at his side.
Tralayn’s ghostly face appeared in the crack as she halted the fireplace’s travel. Air gushed in all around her, carrying the antique scents of her parlor.
“No, stay right there,” she commanded as they began to push forward, their relief suddenly dashed.
“What’s happening, Tralayn?” Roric Amsgard asked.
“The worst—Klann has been murdered in Vedun.”
“Klann—killed?!—how?—what happened?—”
“Hush! This house is being watched by soldiers. Soon they’ll come for me. You cannot leave by this way. I’m not sure you can leave the catacombs at all.”
“How, Tralayn?” Gonji asked. “What happened? Did he—?”
“I’m not sure, but it seems so,” she replied to Gonji’s veiled reference to the rising of a new phoenix-Klann from the body of a dead one. “Mord would allow no one to see what transpired immediately after his death. Then he emerged with a cloaked figure that may have been the new Klann. He was poisoned while he ate—and the boy from the city who tasted for him—”
“Oh, God,” someone said, all heads bowing with the grave revelation.
“—we’re under martial law now. I can’t say what will happen. The people are confused and terrified—”
“What is this business of a ‘new’ Klann?” Monetto asked.
“Best tell them,” Tralayn advised.
Gonji and Wilf briefly related Garth’s amazing tale from the Akryllonian parchment, to shocked gasps and paling faces.
“No one is sure whether it’s true,” Gonji concluded, in an attempt to calm them. “It was thought best to keep the tale under wraps. Now, though...that decision may weigh against us, if the people’s confusion causes them to balk at action. But we still don’t know whether it’s true.”
