They departed the next night, considerably reduced in numbers and weight, at Lukina’s insistence. The cart they had always intended to send back, but with it went four of Ilias’ six attendants and half the bodyguards Symeon had assigned. Packed inside it was the majority of the unnecessary clothing, bedding, and supplies of food they had carried with them from Alba Iulia. Lukina informed them that the traveling and sleeping would be rough, and anyone who could not keep up would be left behind. She only permitted them to take sufficient horses and two pack animals after Myca urgently pointed out that he had no intention whatsoever of walking halfway across the mountains, and there was no room for flexibility in his position on that issue. Lukina snarled and made a number of uncomplimentary remarks about the dainty tenderness of the Tzimisce these nights, but ultimately relented.
They made decent enough time on the ascent through the lower slopes, where the roads were better and a number of villages huddled in the highest valleys, eking out a living in the shadow of the peaks. Most of the people were shepherds or goatherds, or foresters making their living on the chancier trades of trapping and hunting. There were few fields to be found, and what fields there were grew only enough for subsistence, not trade or taxes. Most of the folk had also been taught not to welcome chance-met travelers who arrived by night, likely by harsh fortune. Unlike their lowland cousins, their hospitality was purchasable by sufficient weight in silver, but was generally not free for the asking. Soon, even the modest comforts of a lightless storage cellar for the day’s rest were a luxury as they climbed higher into the mountains.
The roads became little better than goat tracks winding through the high, narrow passes, continuously swept by cool, dry winds. By day, they slept in closely grouped camps, buried in the rocky earth beneath canvas tarps and heavy furs, or in caves when such amenities were close enough to the trail. Broad-leafed trees vanished entirely, replaced by dark forests of fur and pine that swallowed the light of their lamps and torches as they traveled by night. Lukina’s wolves dogged their tracks, keeping watch and, occasionally, sounding warning. Things moved among the trees, their footfalls softened by the carpet of fallen needles, avoiding the reach of the brightest firelight, their presences apparent only with the infrequent glimpse of something huge and misshapen slipping past the corner of the eye, or the lingering sense of malignance they left hanging in the air. When Myca questioned Lukina on the issue, she informed him that not everything stalking the mountains belonged to Ioan or the Tremere. Some things darker still came to feed on the remnants of the war, and it was best to avoid crossing paths with such things. She spoke those words with the first hint of genuine fear he had seen in her, and so he was inclined to give them credit, for the woman was nothing if not hard minded and capable.
Myca had expected Ilias to fare somewhat poorly on the journey, relatively soft as the last few years had been for him, but the koldun-priest of Jarilo rose to the challenge with ease. Myca had to remind himself, somewhat wryly, as he watched his slender, seemingly delicate lover negotiating narrow trails and the hardships of the road with perfect ease, that not so long ago Ilias was a wanderer who traveled from one end of the east almost to the other, rarely settling in one court for any length of time. Even Lukina was grudgingly impressed with his stamina and his woodcraft and, more importantly, his complete failure to whine about any inconvenience, no matter how obnoxious. He was, however, more quiet than usual, nearly withdrawn, and Myca endeavored to remain as close to him as possible, sensing some inner uneasiness. When Lukina announced, five days into the mountains, that they were nearing the territory directly under Ioan Brancoveanu’s rule, Ilias shivered slightly, and Myca saw it.
When they retired late that night to their shallow pit-bed beneath the pines, Myca wrapped his arms around his lover and drew him close. “What troubles you?”
Ilias was silent for a long time, winding their fingers together and leaning his head back against Myca’s chest. Amazingly, his hair still smelled faintly of linden. Finally, he whispered, “I have never been this close to a place where war has been fought with magic. It feels…” Another shiver. “It does not feel right.”
“No,” Myca replied, softly. “I do not imagine that it does. Are you well, my heart? Can you continue on?”
Ilias lifted one of Myca’s hands to his lips. Against his palm, he could feel his lover’s wan smile, then a cool, gentle kiss. “I am not well. Can I endure it? Yes. I will not send you to face Ioan by yourself, with only ghouls to defend and advise you. We shall come through this together, and we will be the stronger for it.”
After that, they spoke no more of the matter, and if the blight of sorcerous war scourged Ilias’ soul, he kept his pain to himself.
Chapter Thirteen
Two nights later, they crossed the border into Ioan Brancoveanu’s domain. No physical barrier that Myca could perceive marked the transition, but the change was palpable nonetheless. Lukina and her wolves, all of whom had prevailed snappish and temperamental, perceptibly relaxed a fraction, tension lessening as they re-entered their home range. The forest itself almost seemed less unwelcoming, better suited to the passage of travelers. Darkness still lurked beneath the pines, but it was a natural darkness, cool spring night rather than the twisted remnants of baneful magics. Ilias brightened up, as well, his discomfort lessening so dramatically that Myca remarked on it.
“Something protects this place, more powerfully than the route we took to make it here,” Ilias replied, thoughtfully, as they bedded down for the day.
“Lady Danika’s work?” Ilias’ pain had manifested in such a way that, for the first time since Myca met him, he was completely disinclined to be touched. Now, he was entirely content to be held as they curled together on silken mats filled with grave-earth.
“Possibly. She is very strong. I remember her as being very strong.” He rested his head beneath Myca’s chin. “But, even so, she is only one and she must spend her strength wisely.”
Myca nodded wordlessly and drew his lover closer, feeling, for the first time, the fragility that lurked beneath his strength, and wondering if the consequences were worth the power the koldun called their own. He himself had felt not a trace of discomfort traveling through the mountains, but rather had felt strangely exhilarated, as though he were coming home for the first time in ages, almost as powerfully as he had felt it when he first set foot on the soil of his homeland after fleeing Constantinople. Beyond the mountains to the south lay Ceoris, where he had spent his mortal youth. A small part of him still regarded it with an emotion similar to affection, though he had few good memories of the place itself, or the people who dwelt there. It was, nonetheless, still a part of him, an admission he made without difficulty or guilt—Ceoris and the Tremere had in part made him what he was, but they were not the whole of him, a truth that he had struggled with in silence for many years. One night, he would possess in full the power they claimed, and he would do so on his own terms. For now, he was content with their place in his past, and what he had become since he left them, however involuntarily.
Holding that contentment close, he closed his eyes, and let sleep claim him.
Myca woke to a chorus of howls, Lukina’s pack singing with full-throated gusto, and he wondered blearily if the moon was full tonight.
“Moon-rise will not be for hours yet.” Ilias replied aloud to the silent question. “The sun is only just down.”
“So I feel.” It took a moment for Myca to work up the energy to push himself to his elbows, particularly with Ilias draped across his chest yet. “What do you suppose it is?”
“I have no idea.” Ilias reached up and lifted the tarpaulin covering their resting place a few inches. “Alin?”
A pair of hands slid under the edge of the tarp and lifted it, allowing the light from a candle-lamp to fall over them, the younger of the two attendants Ilias had brought with him peering in. Myca noticed that the boy was unusually pale and seemed more nervous than usual; Ilias generally chose
his servants for their steady temperaments as much as for their aesthetic appeal. “Master?”
“What is going on? The wolves…”
Alin licked his lips and replied, as steadily as he could, “We were joined during the day by a patrol from the voivode’s manse. They say their captain will be joining us shortly, to guide us the rest of the way in.”
Myca and Ilias exchanged a glance as Alin, aided by the older, taller Isak rolled back the tarp and assisted them in rising, then rapidly began breaking down and packing away the tent that stood over them, as well. The rest of the camp was already broken down, the men clearly prepared to move at a moment’s notice, tending to their restive horses and making certain that all the baggage was lashed down properly. Scattered among them were a number of men (and some few women) not originally of their company, clad in light leather armor and what appeared to be reinforcements of pale bone, armed with short, powerful bows, short wasp-waisted swords, and, in several cases, single-edged hatchets. Lukina stood in the center of the clearing in which they’d camped, next to a low-burning fire, deep in conversation with a hulking figure that could only be loosely described as human-seeming. It was at least seven feet tall—the top of its spike-tipped helmet brushed the lowest branches above their heads—armored and armed, its face covered in a mask of shaped bone, its eyes dark pools within the sockets of the mask. Myca glided forward across the soft bed of pine needles to join the group. Lukina nodded shortly to him in greeting and the giant bowed low, dark hair braided together with bone ornaments spilling over its shoulders.
“Stapân Vykos, this is Vlastimir Vlaszy, lieutenant to my lord voivode Ioan Brancoveanu cel Macelar,” Lukina introduced them, with a passable attempt at formality.
Very properly, the voivode’s giant lieutenant waited until Vykos acknowledged his obeisance before rising. “Stapân Vykos.” The voice that emerged from behind the twisted beast-face of the mask was deep and rich, cultured. “I give you greetings in the name of my lord voivode, Ioan Brancoveanu cel Macelar, and welcome you to his domain. He will be joining us presently.”
“The voivode is gracious. I did not expect him to greet us personally. I and my house are honored.” Myca bowed himself, shallowly, in response to this, and rose to find Ilias at his shoulder. “My advisor, Ilias cel Frumos, koldun-priest of Jarilo.”
All about them, the lupine chorus swelled, and abruptly ceased. Lukina raised her head and listened tensely then announced, “He comes.”
A stir began at the edge of the camp, many of the new arrivals coming forth to give obeisance to their commander as he joined them. Ioan was preceded by two enormous warriors in their zulo shapes, mottled ghost gray and night black, almost invisible in the near-total darkness but for the bright yellow sparks of their eyes. He was otherwise unattended and wore no other form. Myca was startled to realize that Ioan was actually shorter than himself, standing only a finger or two taller than Ilias. The force of presence he exuded gave him the illusion of much greater size as he joined them, quietly and without ceremony, at the fireside, his giant lieutenant bowing to the ground and being waved up with barely a pause.
Myca was not entirely certain what he had expected, but Ioan did not seem to fit the general image of the ravening Tzimisce warlord he had constructed over the years. Certainly, he was clad in armor, the same dark leathers and pale worked bone reinforcements, and certainly he was armed, the pommel of the weapon at his hip a snarling dragon’s head of shaped bone. A bone mask that fit so closely it seemed crafted in place gave his face a vaguely reptilian image. The eyes behind that mask were a shade of brown pale enough to seem amber-golden in the firelight and his pale blonde hair fell to his waist in a multitude of slender braids wound with bone beads and ornaments. A necklace hung to mid-chest, also strung with carved and polished bone charms. He looked appropriately feral, but force of personality that rolled from him did not bespeak a creature of mindless destruction. Myca received the impression of great calm, a questing mind, curiosity tinged with interest.
Ilias and Myca bowed simultaneously and their host waved them up as quickly as he had his servant. “No ceremony now, my lord stapân Vykos, my lord koldun Ilias cel Frumos. There will be time enough for it later, and we must make speed tonight. I wish to reach the bastion before dawn. I trust you are prepared to travel?”
Myca absorbed this lack of formality with barely a blink. “Of course, my lord voivode.”
Ioan nodded sharply. “Then let us make haste.”
Ioan set a brisk pace for the last leg of the journey, most of which they undertook on foot, leading their horses single file up narrow trails. The bulk of the party he broke up into groups of twos and threes, accompanied by one or two of his warriors, staggering their passage through some of the narrower areas and sending some by other routes entirely. Even so, they made excellent time up the last steep series of switchbacks, reaching the edge of the valley Ioan called his own with the sky only beginning to show signs of paling.
Looking down into the valley from the high ridge above it, Myca was quietly impressed. The “bastion,” which his imagination had insisted would be a fortress, actually resembled more of a town, smaller than Alba Iulia, and contained entirely within the bounds of what appeared to be a low earth-and-stone wall. Roughly semicircular, it surrounded a terraced rise at the opposite edge of the valley, on which was constructed another series of walls—a series of palisades, more accurately, of rammed earth and stone topped in sharpened logs. Myca concentrated briefly, drawing on all the light available to him—starlight, moonlight, the lamps their party carried and the torches lit on the walls in the town below—and tried to see more detail as they descended the packed-earth road, leading their horses and following Ioan, who led the way.
“The rim of the valley is warded… by earth and fire, I think,” Ilias murmured as they walked, looking about curiously. They were passing through an area of cultivation, vegetable plots for the most part. No large fields appeared immediately apparent, but Myca supposed they might always trade for sufficient grain.
Myca cast a glance about and, here and there, he caught sight of wooden plinths, carved and hung with charms of carved bone, wood, and metal. “The plinths are the wards? Or the anchors for the magic?”
“Yes. I saw some carved in the rocks along the road, as well, and there were two small ones hidden just off the road at the top of the rise.” Myca watched his lover out of the corner of his eyes, and caught him, more than once, gazing fixedly at something Myca himself could not perceive. “I think the defenses around the rim are supposed to protect against fire. I did not see any signs of forest fire, but that does not mean that they were never nearly burned out of this place.”
“The spirit-arts can accomplish that sort of defense?”
“If you entreat them properly, yes. Stone-spirits are a bastion against even skyfire, correctly instructed. I am certain that’s a fire-break up there. And the plinths in the fields? Protection against foul weather and curses to blight the land, unless I miss my guess.” Ilias rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well constructed, as well. But, then, I would expect at least that much from Lady Danika. She did not strike me as the sort to do things in half-measures.”
They crossed the first of the walls, which was, as Myca had thought, constructed of a rammed-earth embankment four feet in height, topped in a mortared stone wall that stood another three feet above that. Beyond it, the town was silent and darkened, sleeping, and they passed through it quietly. Occasionally, Ilias gestured silently at something that caught his eye—the beaten-metal charms set into the rear of the wall, bits of carving on the lintels of doors—most of which seemed to have some kind of sorcerous significance. At the base of the terraces leading up to the far edge of the valley and the larger palisade, they were met by a collection of servants, who took the horses and baggage in hand, and they proceeded the rest of the way unencumbered.
Myca was beginning to suspect that Ioan had arranged this entire event for his benefi
t, and so he took copious mental notes, refusing to be intimidated but admitting to himself that the Hammer of the Tremere might not simply be all reputation. Skill was evident in the design and construction of this place and discipline was even more apparent among the men and women who occupied it. The palisade was guarded and patrolled, mostly by mortals, szlachta and revenants of martial disposition, Myca didn’t doubt, but here and there he perceived the pale aura of a vampire, many of whom appeared to be prepared for immediate action, not simply command. The road wound up the side of the hill and, on each terrace, he caught glimpses of motion that suggested focused, organized activity. He did not see any dwelling places, per se, and that surprised him somewhat, until they reached the uppermost tier of the fortress.
Ioan’s manse was built into the mountain itself, burrowed into the rise of the valley. From on high, Myca realized that the entire upper fortress was likely underground, and possibly accommodated far more people, and far more vampires, than he originally suspected. The visible portion of the manse itself was a series of low, domelike structures constructed of what appeared to be pressed earth and stone, rising out of the hill as though they had grown there instead of being built, with a small courtyard between them and the uppermost palisade. Torches flickered in the courtyard, and a pair of oil lamps lit the main door to the manse. Here, Ioan paused, removed his mask, and turned to face them. Myca was surprised: but for their differences in coloring, Ioan and Nikita of Sredetz could have been kin, graced as they were with the same sharpness of features, the same high cheekbones and angular shape to their eyes.
The Hammer of the Tremere bowed low, in formal greeting, and rose with a flourish of his pale hair. “I give you greetings, Myca Vykos syn Draconov, childe of Symeon, childe of Gesu, childe of the Dracon, most beloved of the Eldest. I give you greetings, Ilias cel Frumos, koldun-priest of Jarilo, childe of Dorinta, daughter of the gods. I welcome you in the name of my sire, Lukasz Brancoveanu, and the name of my house,”—the faintest possible trace of irony colored his tone—“and in my own name. Be named friend and welcome in my house, where no harm shall come to you and all of your wants shall be met, to seek your rest. This I swear by the holy names of Earth and Sky, and by the Waters of Life and Death.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 11
