The Heretic Kings: Book Two of The Monarchies of God

by Paul Kearney

  Commodius’ body was discovered just before Vespers, after the upper levels of the library had been turned upside down. Monks searching the lower levels had come upon a discarded oil lamp, and a pile of broken masonry built up against a wall of the catacombs. It fell apart as soon as they began to investigate it, and a monsignor entered the little temple along with two armed Knights to discover the corpse of the Senior Librarian stark and staring, the silver pentagram dagger buried in its spine.

  The circumstances of the discovery were not bruited abroad, but the story made its way about the monastery-city that the Senior Librarian had been foully murdered in horrible surroundings somewhere deep in the foundations of his own library, and his assistant, along with a young Inceptine who was known to be his special friend, was missing.

  Patrols of the Knights Militant and squads of the Almarkan garrison soldiers prowled the streets of Charibon, and the monks at Vespers whispered up and down the long pews when they were not singing to God’s glory. There was a murderer, or murderers, loose in Charibon. Heretics, perhaps, come spreading fear in the city at the behest of the heresiarch Macrobius who sat at the Devil’s right hand in Torunn. The senior Justiciars were forming an investigative body to get to the bottom of the affair, and the Pontiff himself was overseeing them.

  But late that evening, in the white fury of yet another snow-storm, two events went unremarked by the patrols which were watching the perimeters of Charibon. One was the arrival of a small party of men on foot, struggling through the drifts with their black uniforms frosted white. The other was the departure of two bent and labouring monks bowed under heavy sacks, feeling their way through the blizzard with stout pilgrim’s staves and gasping in their pain and grief as they trudged along the frozen shores of the Sea of Tor, bypassing the bonfires of the sentry-posts by hiking far out on the frozen surface of the sea itself to where the pancake ice bunched and rippled under the wind like the unquiet contents of a white cauldron. Albrec and Avila struggled on with the ice gathering on their swollen faces and the blood in their hands and feet slowly solidifying in the intense depth of the raging cold. The snowstorm cloaked them entirely, so that they were not challenged once in their fumbling progress. But it also seemed to be fairly on the way to killing them before their flight had even got under way.

  T HE party of black-clad men demanded admittance to the suites of the High Pontiff Himerius, and the startled guards and clerical attendants were spun into a frenzy by their unexpected appearance. Finally they were billeted in a warm, if austere, anteroom whilst the Pontiff was notified of their arrival. It was the first time in four centuries that Fimbrian soldiers had come to Charibon.

  The Pontiff was being robed by two ageing monks in his private apartments when the Vicar-General of the Inceptine Order entered. The monks were dismissed and the two Churchmen stood looking at one another, Himerius still fastening his purple robe about his thickening middle.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Betanza took a seat and could not stifle a yawn: it was very late, and he had had a trying day.

  “No luck. The two monks remain missing. They are either dead, if they are innocent, or fled if they are not.”

  Himerius grunted, regarding his own reflection in the full-length mirror which graced the sombre opulence of his dressing chamber.

  “They are guilty, Betanza: I feel it. Commodius was trying to stop them from committing heresy, and he died for it.” A spasm of indefinable emotion crossed the Pontiff’s aquiline features and then was gone. “May God have mercy on him, he was a loyal servant of the Church.”

  “What makes you so sure that was the way of it, Holiness?” Betanza asked, obviously curious. His big soldier’s face was ruddy with the day he had spent, and scarlet lines intagliated the whites of his eyes.

  “I know,” Himerius snapped. “You will send out search parties of the Knights to find these two runaways as soon as the weather permits. I want them brought back to Charibon to undergo inquisition.”

  Betanza shrugged. “As you wish, Holiness. What of these Fimbrians closeted below? Will you see them tonight?”

  “Yes. We must know if their arrival here at this time is a coincidence or part of a larger plan. I need not tell you, Betanza, that the events of today must not leave the city. No tales of murder in Charibon must trickle out to the kingdoms. This place must be unbesmirched, pure, unsullied by scandal or rumour.”

  “Of course, Holiness,” Betanza said, at the same time wondering how he was supposed to muzzle a city of many thousands. Monks were worse than women for gossip. Still, the weather would help.

  “A courier arrived here this afternoon, while you were occupied with other matters,” Himerius said lightly, and there was a different air about him suddenly, a glittering triumph that he could not keep out of his eyes. The Pontiff turned and faced the Vicar-General squarely, his hands clasped on his breast. It looked as though a wild grin was fighting to break out over his face. For an instant, Betanza thought, he looked slightly mad.

  “Good news, my friend,” Himerius said, mastering himself. He was once more the sober cleric, weighed down with dignity and gravitas. “The courier came from Alstadt. It would seem that our devoted son of the Church, King Haukir of Almark, has died at last, may the Saints receive his flitting soul into their bosoms. This pious king, this paragon of dutiful faith, has left his kingdom to the Church.”

  Betanza gaped. “You’re sure?”

  “The courier carried a missive from Prelate Marat of Almark. He has been named regent of the kingdom until such time as I see fit to organize its governance. Almark is ours, Betanza.”

  “What of the nobles? Have they aught to say about it?”

  “They will acquiesce. They must. Almark has a strong contingent of the Knights Militant in its capital, and the Royal armies are for the most part billeted further east, along the line of the Saeroth river. Almark is ours, truly.”

  “They say that events of moment are like nodes of history,” Betanza mused. “Where one occurs, others are likely to happen at the same time, sometimes in the same place. You may face these Fimbrians with new confidence, Holiness. The timing could not have been more opportune.”

  “Precisely. It is why I will receive them now, though it is so late. I want the news to be a shock to them.”

  “What do you think they want?”

  “What does anyone these days? The Church owns Almark, it controls Hebrion. It has become an empire. Accommodation must be sought with it. I have no doubt that these Fimbrians are come to test the waters of diplomatic exchange. The old imperial power is bending in the new wind. Come: we will go down and meet them together.”

  The Pontifical reception hall was full of shadows. Torches burned in cressets along the walls, and glowing braziers had been brought in to stand around the dais whereon rested the Pontiff’s throne. Knights Militant stood like graven monuments every ten paces along the walls, blinking themselves awake and stiffening the moment the Pontiff entered and sat himself down. Betanza remained standing at his right hand, and a pair of scribes huddled in their dark robes like puddles of ebony ink at the foot of the dais, quills erect. To one side Rogien, the old Inceptine who was also the manager of the Pontifical court, stood ready, his bare scalp gleaming in the torchlight.

  The Fimbrians had to walk the length of the flame-and-shadowed hall, their boots clumping on the basalt floor. Four of them, all in black, except for the scarlet sash that one wore about his waist.

  Hard-faced men, wind-burn rouging their cheeks and foreheads, their hair cropped as short as the mane of a hogged horse. They bore no weapons, but the Knights who lined the walls on either side of them watched them intently and warily with fists clenched on sword-hilts.

  “Barbius of Neyr, marshal and commander in the Fimbrian army,” Rogien announced in a voice of brass.

  Barbius inclined his head to Himerius. Fimbrians did not bend the knee to anyone save their emperor. Himerius knew this, yet the slight bow had so much of
contempt in it that he shifted in his throne, his liver-spotted hands tightening on the armrests.

  “Barbius of the electorate of Neyr, you are welcome in Charibon,” the Pontiff said calmly. “The urgency of your errand is written in your face and those of your companions, and so we have deigned to grant you an audience despite the lateness of the hour. Quarters appropriate for your rank have been set aside for you and your comrades, and as soon as the audience is over there will be food and drink served to help sustain the flagging spirit.”

  Barbius made the slight bow again in acknowledgement of this graciousness. His voice when he spoke was the grate of sliding rock to Himerius’ deep music.

  “I thank His Holiness for his hospitality, but am grieved to say that I shall not be able to take advantage of it. I and my men are in haste: the main body of our force is encamped some five leagues from here and we hope to rejoin them ere the morning.”

  “Main body?” Himerius repeated.

  “Yes, Holiness. I am here to reassure you that the troops under my command bear the monastery-city nothing but goodwill, and you need not fear—nor need Almark fear—any rapine on their behalf. We are merely passing through, obeying the orders of the Electors.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you not an embassy come from the electorates?” Himerius asked.

  “No, Holiness. I am merely the commander of an eastwardbound Fimbrian army come to pay my respects.”

  The statement fell in the room like a thunderclap.

  “A Fimbrian army is encamped five leagues from Charibon?” Betanza said, incredulous.

  “Yes, excellency.”

  “Whither are you bound?” Himerius inquired, and the music was gone from his voice. He sounded as hoarse as an old crow.

  “We are bound for the relief of Ormann Dyke.”

  “At whose behest?”

  “I am ordered by my superiors, the Electors of Fimbria.”

  “But who has asked for your help? Lofantyr the heretic? It must be.”

  Barbius shrugged, his red-gold moustache concealing any expression his mouth might have conveyed. His eyes were as flat and hard as sea ice. “I am only following orders, Holiness. It is not for me to question the doings of high policy.”

  “Do you realize you are imperilling your immortal soul by succouring a heretic who has repudiated the validity of the holy Church?” Himerius snapped.

  “As I said, Holiness, I am merely a soldier obeying orders. If I do not obey them my life is forfeit. I called in on you here as a courtesy, to ask your blessing.”

  “You march to the aid of he who shields the heresiarch of the west, and you ask my blessing?” Himerius said.

  “My army marches east to stem the Merduk invasion. It is performing a service for every kingdom in the west, be they Himerian or Macrobian,” Barbius said. “I ask you, Holiness, to look on it in that light. The dyke will fall in the spring if my forces do not reinforce it, and the Merduks will be hammering at the gates of Charibon within a year. It may be that King Lofantyr is paying our wages, but the service we render is of value to every free man in Normannia.”

  Himerius was silent, thinking. It was Betanza who spoke next.

  “So you are mercenaries, you Fimbrians. You hire yourselves out to kings in need and fight for the gold in their coffers. What if the Merduk sultans offered you a greater wage than the western kings, Marshal? Would you then fight under the banners of the Prophet?”

  For the first time, emotion crossed the face of the Fimbrian marshal. His eyes flared and he took one step forward, which made every guard in the chamber tense on the balls of his feet.

  “Who built Charibon?” he asked. “Who founded Aekir and hollowed out Ormann Dyke and reared up the great moles of Abrusio Harbour? My people did. For centuries the Fimbrians were the buckler behind which the people of the west sheltered from the steppe hordes, the horse-tribes, the Merduk thousands. The Fimbrians made the western world what it is. You think we would betray the heritage of our forefathers, the legacy of our empire? Never! Once again we are in the foremost rank of those defending it. All we ask”—and here the marshal’s tone softened—“is that you do not see our reinforcing of the dyke as an assault on the Himerian Church. We intend no heresy, and would keep on good terms with Charibon if we could.”

  Himerius rose and lifted his hand. The torchlight made his face into an eagle mask, eyes glittering blackly on either side of the aquiline nose.

  “You have our blessing then, Marshal Barbius of Neyr. May your arms shine with glory, and may you hurl the Merduk heathen back from the gates of the west.”

  “W HY did you do it?” Betanza demanded. “Why did you legitimize the farming out of Fimbrian troops to heretics? It is senseless!”

  He and the Pontiff were sweeping along one of Charibon’s starlit cloisters, utterly deserted at this time of night. Their hands were hidden in their sleeves and they had their hoods drawn up against the biting cold, but the blizzards had ended and the night air was as clear as the bleb of an icicle, sharp as a shard of flint. Novices had swept the cloister clear of snow before retiring to bed and the two clerics were able to stride along without interruption.

  “Why should I not do it? Had I refused the blessing, alienated the man, then I would have done the Church no favours and possibly a great deal of harm. We cannot argue with an army of Fimbrians. Think of that, Betanza! Fimbrians on the march again across the continent. The imperial tercios on the move. It is enough to make a man shudder with apprehension. We knew after the Conclave of Kings that something like this was in the wind—but so soon. Lofantyr has stolen a march on us, quite literally.”

  “But why bless his enterprise? It is giving tacit recognition of the Torunnan kingdom, which is no longer within the Church’s fold.”

  “No. I merely blessed the Fimbrians: I did not wish Godspeed to heretics. If the old imperial power is once again stirring and taking an interest in the world, then it would be as well for us to keep it on our side. The Fimbrians are still a Himerian state, remember. They have never formally recognized the anti-Pontiff Macrobius, and therefore they are technically in our camp. Let us keep it that way. The Fimbrians themselves obviously want to keep the Church in their corner, else that brutish marshal would have marched past Charibon without a pause and we would be none the wiser of his passing. No—despite the bequest of Almark we are not strong enough to antagonize the Electors.”

  Their sandals slapped on the frigid stone of the cloisters.

  “I pity them, sleeping out on a night like this,” Betanza said.

  Himerius snorted. “They are soldiers, little better than animals. They hardly register any feeling except the most base. Let them shiver.”

  They took one more turn about the cloister, and then: “I will go to bed now, Holiness,” Betanza said, oddly subdued. “My investigations into the death of Commodius will recommence at dawn. I wish to pray awhile.”

  “By all means. Good night, Betanza.”

  The Pontiff stood alone in the clear night, his eyes glittering under his hood. In his mind he was marshalling armies and putting the cities of the heretics to the torch. A second empire there would be on earth, and as mad Honorius had said it would rise in an age of fire and the sword.

  I am tired, Himerius thought, his savage exaltation flickering out as the freezing wind searched his frame. I am old, and weary of the struggle. But soon my task will be fulfilled, and I will be able to rest. Someone else will take my place.

  He padded off to his bed as silently as a cat.

  “A LBREC. Wake up, Albrec!”

  A blow on Albrec’s cheekbone snapped his head to one side and tore the scab of ice from around his nose. He moaned as the cold air bit into the exposed flesh and fought open his eyes as someone shook him as though he were a rat being worried by a dog.

  He lay half-buried in snow and a frost-white shape was pummelling him.

  “All right, all right! I’m awake.”

  Avila collapsed in a heap beside h
im, the air sobbing in and out of his fractured chest. “It’s stopped snowing,” he wheezed. “We should try to move on.”

  But they both remained prone in the drift which had come close to burying them. Their clothes had stiffened on their backs to the consistency of armour, and they no longer had any feeling left in their extremities. Worse, white patches of frostbite discoloured their faces and ears.

  “We’re finished,” Albrec moaned. “God has abandoned us.”

  The wind had dropped, and they lay on their backs in the snow staring up at the vast vault of the star-crowded night sky. Beautiful and pitiless, the stars were so bright that they cast faint shadows, though the moon had not yet risen.

  Far off the two clerics heard the forlorn howl of a solitary wolf, come down out of the terrible winter heights of the Cimbrics seeking food.

  Another answered it, and then there were more. A pack of them off in the night, calling to one another in some unfathomable fellowship.

  Albrec was strangely unafraid. I am dying, he thought, and it does not matter.

  “Sailors believe that in oyvips live the souls of lost mariners who drowned in a state of sin,” the little monk told Avila, remembering his childhood on the Hardic Sea.

  “What’s an oyvip?” Avila asked, his voice a light feather of a thing balanced on his lips, as though his lungs were too racked with pain to give it depth.

  “A great, blunt-nosed fish with a kindly eye and a habit of following ships. A happy thing, always at play.”

  “Then I envy those lost souls,” Avila breathed.

  “And woodsmen,” Albrec went on, his own voice becoming slurred and faint. “They believe that in wolves abide the souls of evil men, and, some think, of lost children. They think that in the heart of the wolf lies all the darkness and despair of mankind, which is why shifters usually manifest as wolves.”

  “You read too much, Albrec,” Avila whispered. “Too many things. Wolves are animals, mindless and soulless. Man is the only true beast, because he has the capacity not to be.”