Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  “No stench of plotting and distrust, you mean,” Mekhmet said frankly. “I totally agree.” With a shrug of his shoulders, he took off his embroidered waistcoat and his turban, grimacing like someone who’d just put down a heavy weight, then they set off along the corridor and across the lawn that led to Mekhmet’s private apartments.

  “The Weapons Master is more than pleased with you,” he said. “In fact, he actually said he’s amazed at how readily you’ve taken to the training regime.”

  “Did he?” said Sharley, enormously gratified. “I’ve been waiting for almost fifteen years to start living my life; I suppose I’m just making up for lost time.”

  “Yes, I expect so,” said Mekhmet. “Everything’s going nicely to plan, but there are two mountains to climb yet. First – the more difficult of the two – the Sultan has to be told about our expedition to the north, and second, you must have a horse.”

  “Yes,” said Sharley quietly. “Will he be difficult to persuade?”

  “Without doubt,” said Mekhmet opening the door to the Court of the Lions and standing back to let his friend enter first. “He’ll refuse to sanction even the idea of sending soldiers to help in your war against Bellorum, but that will merely be a show of diplomacy for the benefit of the Polypontian spies. Later we’ll receive a message to attend him in his private quarters where we’ll discuss logistics and details.”

  “But how can you be so certain that’s how things will happen?”

  Mekhmet led the way to his day room, where a jug of sherbet sat cooling in a bucket of ice. “Because I know the Sultan better than anyone. Even the Grand Vizier cannot guess his actions better than me. Everyone thinks he’s just a fat old man waiting to die, but I know that in his heart my father is still the warrior he was in his youth. You simply have to know how to fan the embers of power so that they can burst into flames again.” He poured two beakers of the icy drink and gave one to Sharley. “He doesn’t know himself that he’ll be lending his support to the expedition . . . yet.”

  “I see,” said Sharley, feeling as loutish and unsophisticated as a peasant on his first visit to the big city. “Yes, I see.”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Court of Sultan Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent was at least three times larger than that of the Crown Prince. Most of the courtiers had been with him for over twenty years, as they’d cleverly cultivated his favour when he was still only a young man during his father’s reign. And now they were reaping the benefits of their gamble by living a luxurious life at the expense of the palace treasury. This they considered their proper due: after all, they created a Court that was populated with richly dressed and seemly men who provided a sophisticated, stable palace culture that reflected the society of the country around it.

  But today held the promise of new events that would probably entertain the courtiers for weeks to come. Rumour had it that the foreign Prince Charlemagne from the barbarian north was to be given an audience with His Majesty, although his expected request for military aid would certainly be turned down. Refusals of the Royal Favour were always far more interesting than the granting of wishes and requests.

  A flurry of movement near the main doors concentrated their minds, and they all salaamed deeply as the Sultan entered the Court of the Nightingales. The elderly monarch seemed a little more sprightly today, and he needed only one servant to help him climb the short flight of steps to his throne. The older courtiers, who knew the temperament of Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent as precisely as a drover understands the moods of his cattle, guessed that he was looking forward to an interesting change to the time-honoured order of his routine. Today, he was to meet Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Prince of the country that had defeated the vicious Polypontian Empire. How could anyone with such a gloriously barbaric name fail to be anything other than entertaining, at the very least? Crown Prince Mekhmet had assured his father that the northern Prince was the most striking of individuals, not only in his physical appearance, but also in terms of personality and temperament. And this had been confirmed by the Sultan’s spies.

  The Prince’s training in the Sultanate’s method of warfare was going marvellously, he was informed. The barbarian Prince shone in almost every use of weapon and style of fighting, and overall seemed to be a most fitting bearer of the name Charlemagne. After all, was it not the ancient King of Gallia who had learned how to fight using the ways of the Desert People? And was it not also this very same king who had befriended the Sultan of the day, Abd al-Rahman II? Perhaps the One had decreed that the name should return and the bearer once again be an unlikely friend of the Desert People.

  The Sultan nodded to the Chief Eunuch, who bowed and raised his hand to the door porters who stood far away across the wide room. The doors were opened, swinging outwards on to a courtyard where the petitioners usually stood, but which today was empty, save for two small figures staring proudly ahead. The Princes Mekhmet and Charlemagne had arrived for their audience.

  As the doors to the audience chamber slowly opened, Sharley almost panicked, but then Mekhmet caught his eye and grinned. “Eh up, hairy arse,” he whispered. “Let’s go and show them how it’s done!”

  Sharley grinned back. The Crown Prince seemed to have a better grasp of the language of the housecarles’ guardroom than even he had! Hardly a day went by when he didn’t use some odd phrase or other he’d picked up from Sharley.

  They both nodded and stepped out together, sweeping across the floor of the audience chamber. Sharley almost found himself swaggering! There was something about the clothing of the Desert People that gave a bearing and dignity to the wearer, and Mekhmet had assured him that the loose trousers, waistcoat and sash of his people suited him very well. With the addition of the long cloak he was wearing, the outfit made Sharley feel ten feet tall and invincible. Mekhmet’s only regret was that his friend would insist on wearing black. There was a whole palette of colours Sharley could have worn, but he would only ever choose black. Still, he wore it well, and the colour set off his mane of red hair and his strange green eyes magnificently.

  Sharley stared rigidly ahead at the throne as he advanced across the room. This was the first time he would see the Sultan, and though Mekhmet had hinted that his father was older than might be expected and was less than well, Sharley wasn’t ready for the small fat figure they were approaching. Was this Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent, Lord of the Sands and Beloved of the One? He’d expected someone taller, more elegant and formidable. And even if he was old and ill, Sharley had expected a noble ruin of a once mighty form, not this almost circular little munchkin who was wearing a turban that seemed almost as big as he was!

  Some of Sharley’s nervousness evaporated. This may have been the most important meeting he’d had to date, on which the fate of the Icemark and literally millions of lives depended, but he really couldn’t be afraid of a little man who made Maggiore Totus look fierce!

  They stamped to a halt before the throne, and both Princes inclined their heads in keeping with protocol. The Sultan turned on them the fiercest eyes that Sharley had ever seen. Even the Greyling bear he’d fought so long ago in the Great Forest, when he’d tried to prove his worth as a warrior, had looked kinder! They were the deepest black, and somewhere far down in their depths a spark of ferocity burned, reminding Sharley of Tharaman-Thar. Fear reclaimed him and his mouth went dry.

  “My Lord Sultan, Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent, Ruler of the Lands of Fire, and my most revered father, may I present to you Prince Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield of the Icemark, Regent to his people in Exile, and beloved son of Queen Thirrin, vanquisher of General Scipio Bellorum and the armies of the Polypontian Empire.”

  The old Monarch faced Sharley full on, and the Prince felt his bad leg preparing to give way for the first time in days. He bowed his head in silence, and swallowed hard in a desperate attempt to moisten his dry mouth.

  “I am pleased to meet a scion of t
he mighty House of Lindenshield. May the One for ever bless the lineage of the warrior clan who defeated Scipio Bellorum and made as dust his pride and ambition.”

  “And may the One forever smile upon the House of Nasrid who have been for generations as a scimitar in the flank of the Empire,” Sharley replied with equal courtesy, hiding his terrible nerves behind the formality of his words.

  “You speak our language well,” said the Sultan with delighted surprise, even though his spies had already told him that the barbarian Prince was fluent. “You have the slightest trace of an accent that serves only to add charm to your words.”

  “Father, Prince Charlemagne has come as an ambassador to our lands and would make a request of us,” said Mekhmet, coming to the point far more quickly than Sharley had expected.

  “My son would finish our meeting before we have drawn breath, it would seem,” the Sultan said. “Well, so be it; now that you have mentioned the purpose of Prince Charlemagne’s visit perhaps he should reveal its details to us.”

  Now he had come to it! This was the point and purpose of weeks of travelling; this could be the fruition or downfall of all Maggie’s plans, and most important of all, the survival or destruction of the Icemark depended on it. The terrible weight of the responsibility seemed to crush Sharley and he felt his back physically rounding as he tried to look up to the throne.

  “My Lord . . . My Lord,” he stuttered, and he almost despaired of ever pleading the case for military aid. But then a sense of his own destiny flared through his frame and his spine straightened. Had he but known it, both his mother and his sister had experienced just such a strengthening of resolve when their confidence was at its lowest ebb. This was the blood of the Lindenshield clan suddenly finding its courage under the threat of failure and defeat.

  “My Lord Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent, Lord of the Sands and Beloved of the One. I am sent as ambassador from the Land of the Icemark to ask for your help in our continuing struggle with the Polypontian Empire. Our armies and allies are mighty indeed, but even so they are in danger of being overwhelmed by the uncountable numbers of the Imperial forces. Even the sharpest scimitar may be blunted against the immovable mountain, and even the mightiest sea can be swallowed by the unending deserts. So, too, are our forces in danger of finally succumbing to the limitless might of the Empire.” He paused and looked out over the mass of courtiers, who’d all crowded nearer to hear him speak. Their heads were so closely packed together that they looked like an extraordinary mosaic, made up of a rainbow of brightly coloured turbans. “We have great need of help in the war that rages even now in the lands of my people, and I believe that the famous and formidable cavalry of the Desert People could help us to defeat the Empire and its plans once and for all. Help us in our struggle, and in so doing draw the Imperial war machine away from your own lands and so bring relief to your borders.”

  The Sultan gazed at the Prince before him. In the passion of his eloquent speech Charlemagne’s amazing red hair had risen about his head like a halo of fire, and his green eyes sparked and blazed like those of a wild beast. Truly, here was a warrior of the House of Lindenshield. How odd that it took the training and fighting methods of the Desert People to hone it to this point of confidence. “Prince Charlemagne, the fighting might of your valiant land is known to all of those who struggle against the oppression of the Polypontian Empire, and what individual could resist your call to aid and arms? But those of us who carry the burden of rule must always consider the risks of answering such a call.”

  Mekhmet had warned Sharley that the Sultan would refuse his request in public, so he wasn’t surprised at the direction his words were taking. Even so, he suddenly had an overwhelming need to convince all who heard him of his cause.

  “Forgive me, My Lord, if I speak bluntly, but wouldn’t it be better to finally confront the evil of the Empire and defeat it now, rather than allow this slow strangling war against your people to go on any longer?”

  “We have maintained our independence in the face of Imperial aggression far longer than any other nation that has been subjected to the wrath of the Empire!” The Sultan spoke with a slow rising anger. Who was this youth to dictate policy to a man of his experience?

  “And yet your cities are dying and your trade routes are drying up, and your people go hungry as you fight against the raids that go on year after year, decade after decade,” said Sharley, quite unable to stop himself arguing. “You have the independence of a country that is doing exactly what the Imperial strategists want it to do: fighting within its own lands, damaging its own resources while it slowly grows weaker and weaker with each passing year.”

  The Sultan almost screamed in rage. “And what other option have we had, Little Lord Knowledgeable? When the Polypontians first attacked our lands there were no others to help us, and already we were weakened by the slow decline of our trade routes, lost to the Venezzians. And yet despite all of this we defeated two Imperial invasion forces and even blooded Scipio Bellorum’s nose.”

  “Yes, but only when he was still a junior officer with little experience of war! If Bellorum truly wanted to add the Desert Kingdom to his domain he would have returned as a General long before now, and your exhausted land would have been forced to stand alone against the mightiest war machine the known world has ever seen.”

  The Sultan’s heart pounded, and his hands and feet tingled with the sensation of rushing blood for the first time in years. How dare this little upstart argue with Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent!

  “If the Desert People are so weak and unworthy, why do you seek an alliance with them for your barbarous little nation in the frigid and frosty north?”

  “Quite simply because they are neither weak nor unworthy. They are, on the contrary, superb. Their army’s name strikes dread in the heart of their enemies, and the thunder of their hooves is like the drum of doom to those who dare to oppose them! But here, within your borders, you are trapped. Come with me to the north and let your squadrons fly like the storming winds over the wide lands of the Icemark and drive Scipio Bellorum back to his lair never to come out ever again!” said Sharley with passion, astonishing himself with his audacity and eloquence. Now there were notes of approval tumbled in with the murmurings of outrage. “Your policies and tactics have been misguided. No, more than that, they have been wrong for decades and have allowed the Polypontians to inflict a long slow defeat on a people who should have been their greatest challenge!”

  “Wrong? My policies have been WRONG?” raged the Sultan. It wasn’t possible for a monarch of the House of Nasrid to be wrong. “At worst my policies may have been less successful than they might have been, but they were never wrong!”

  Mekhmet was watching the argument in amazement. He had known his friend had depths he could only guess at, but this toe-to-toe verbal battle with his father left him speechless. He, too, was was outraged by what Sharley was saying, even though there’d been times when he’d thought the same things himself, and he was astounded that Sharley dared face up to the Sultan in this way. Mekhmet’s loyalties were hopelessly divided, and all he could do was to watch in silence.

  “My Lord,” Sharley began again. “Now is the time to ally what strength you still have with a determined and experienced resistance against the might of the Polypontian Empire, and in so doing draw the load of oppression and warfare away from your lands. Let the killing grounds be in the Icemark far to the north, and allow your kingdom and people a respite from the constant clamour and damage of war.”

  The Sultan drew breath. He was angrier than he ever remembered being before, and yet, at the same time, he had to admit that he’d heard more opinions expressed in the space of the last few minutes than he had heard in more than twenty years of rule. Someone had dared to have a different view and to voice it with the sort of force and vigour that he himself would have done, and quite simply it incensed him. And yet . . . and yet he felt more alive and more invigorated than he had in years and years of Palace
living.

  “And if I send my squadrons of cavalry away to fight in the north, how will I protect my borders?” he asked in a quieter voice.

  “If you send your squadrons to the north, the Imperial forces will need every unit, every regiment, every army it can possibly muster to hold at bay the greatest alliance of people the world will have ever seen!”

  “So you say, a mere callow youth with little experience of life and no understanding of warfare,” said the Sultan scornfully.

  “No! So says Maggiore Totus, a venerable diplomat and politician of deep wisdom and long experience. I am merely his messenger come to deliver that which he would have said.”

  “Then where is this paragon of diplomatic virtue? Why has he left a child to speak in his place?”

  Sharley ignored the intended insult. “He lies exhausted and ill at the desert house of Al-Khatib the merchant. It was he who begged me to go on and seek audience with the Sultan so that our mission might not fail.”

  Haroun Nasrid the Magnificent paused and took stock. “Al-Khatib is well known to me. He has many . . . uses and has helped in several important projects. What does he say of the plans of this Maggiore Totus?”

  “My Lord, in truth we told him few details, but his mind is such that he guessed much of our mission and agreed with it wholeheartedly,” Sharley answered, childishly crossing his fingers against the untruths and exaggerations he found himself forced to make.

  “That rings true,” the Sultan said. “He has a brain of ‘lightning and oceans’, as the old saying goes – both speed and great depth. If anyone could guess the secret within any mission it would be he! And you say that he agreed with your ideas?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “Then that . . .” The old monarch sat back in his throne, his eyes focused on the middle distance as he cogitated. “Then that puts everything in a different light. I must think on this for a moment or two.” He suddenly looked up. “Where is the grace and hospitality of my Court? Bring seats and refreshments for my son and his friend, Prince Charlemagne!”