Dragonchaser (The Annals of Mondia)

by Tim Stretton

  Trajian walked over and pulled Inisse to his feet by his good wrist. “Go now,” he said. “We all saw your bravery today.”

  Inisse said nothing. In accordance with custom he bowed and offered his sword hilt to Mirko, who shook his head. “Forfeiture is for cowards,” he said. “Take back your sword.”

  “Thank you,” said Inisse expressionlessly. He turned on his heel and walked away with his seconds.

  Trajian said: “Are you hurt?”

  Mirko shook his head. “He was more skilfull than I expected, but he didn’t touch me.”

  “Idiocy,” said Florian through tight lips. “You rescue the man; then you let him nearly drown your paramour and come within an inch of cutting your throat. We should have let him rot: and you should have killed him today. He’s not finished with you yet.”

  “The Lady Larien is not my paramour. And Bartazan detained him unjustly; we did right to free him.”

  Florian laughed mirthlessly. “And you seek to right every injustice? When you run a crew of slaves? Where is the justice in my situation? Or Trajian’s? We are Garganet officers. All of the crew would adduce circumstances of their own.”

  “Do you think I like to see Garganets in the slave pens? The fact is you were captured by corsairs who sold you in the markets to Bartazan. By every rule of trade that’s legal. I can’t do anything for either of you.”

  Florian shrugged. “I never thought you could; I never even imagined you’d try. But don’t be so keen to promote yourself as a universal champion of justice, Ascalon. It doesn’t sit well with everyone.”

  “You don’t have to like me, Florian; you don’t have to agree with me. Just do what I tell you. As soon as I can do anything for either of you, I’ll do it.”

  Trajian snorted. “Do you know, I think I preferred Padizan and Orstas: at least I knew where I was with them.”

  “That’s enough, both of you. I’m all that stands between you and Bartazan having the hide whipped off you.”

  “Obliged to your forbearance, I’m sure,” said Florian with sardonic emphasis.

  “Mirko — look,” said Trajian in a level tone.

  Turning, Mirko saw some twenty figures in the white robes trimmed with green of the Animaxianites advancing towards them. Four of the men carried a large net.

  “We’re trapped,” said Trajian. “We can’t get past them and we’ve the sea at our backs.”

  “And one sword between three of us,” said Mirko. “This constitutes competitive odds.”

  Florian shook his head. “Animaxian take Inisse! Every time you show him any mercy he tries to kill us.”

  Mirko pulled his sword. “You two distract them — I’ll try and slash the net.”

  “Distract!” said Trajian. “With what, my arse?”

  “Come on!” called Florian. “Garganet! Garganet!”

  “Garganet!” cried Trajian as he joined Florian’s charge.

  Mirko advanced cautiously towards the net; before he was in sword range its holders surged forwards; Mirko’s arms were entangled before he could hope to use his sword. Kicking and struggling, he watched as first Trajian and then Florian were clubbed down with stout staves. In silence they were carried across to the net and dumped in alongside Mirko; a tangle of arms and legs which Mirko could not help but feel essentially undignified. Florian and Trajian, both stunned, seemed in no condition to offer an opinion.

  Circumstances — in particular the net — prevented Mirko from decisive action. He had no option but to wait as he was jounced along through the back streets, until he saw, to no great surprise, the Temple of Animaxian looming large.

  Through the giant archway they were carried, into the main worship space, out past the back of the altar to the top of a concealed stairway. Down, down they were carried. Soon Mirko smelled a briny tang and heard the lapping of waves. It seemed the Animaxianites maintained an underground link to the sea, although the reason was not immediately obvious.

  The Animaxianites soon arrived at their destination; a dank, reeking cell with every inch of floor covered in seaweed. Mirko was encouraged that the seaweed did not extend up the walls; at least they would not be drowned by the next tide.

  The Animaxianites set the net down and unceremoniously rolled the Garganets out.

  “What is this?” asked Mirko, more for form’s sake than in any serious hope of an answer.

  “Wait,” said one of the Animaxianites. “All will soon be revealed to you. Make your peace with whatever gods you worship.”

  Mirko derived no comfort from this; indeed it seemed likely that the Animaxianites intended to kill them. Florian had been right in saying he had shown Inisse too much mercy. Fortunately Florian, conscious but groggy, seemed ill-disposed to press the point.

  Several hours passed. The daylight which leached into the cell faded, leaving only an eerie phosphorescence from the seaweed. Florian emerged from a long silence.

  “So. What are their intentions, do you think?”

  Mirko sighed. “Nothing good, I suspect. If you were my officers, I’d be suggesting we say the Battle Creed.”

  Trajian groaned and rubbed his head. “We aren’t dead yet. ‘I commend me to the endless night’ seems unnecessarily pessimistic.”

  “They clearly intend to kill us,” said Mirko. “My guess would be as some form of sacrifice.”

  “What a death,” spat Florian. “Underground, a sacrifice and a slave. We’ll take a few with us, at least.”

  The door creaked on its rusted hinges to admit a small amount of light and three figures. Two were guards with swords drawn; clinking from the corridor suggested there were more. The third figure was a woman, her purple robes trimmed with silver. By Mirko’s assessment this made her a senior figure, possibly even a High Spiritor.

  “My lady,” he said. “Welcome to what is, however temporarily, my establishment. I am sorry we are unable to offer you hospitality.”

  “Are you the galley-master?” she asked, her voice calm and well-modulated. She did not appear a fanatic. Mirko suspected that their chances of leaving the Temple alive depended on creating some kind of rapport with her.

  “Mirko Ascalon, formerly of the Garganet Navy, at your service. My associates, the Gentle Florian and Trajian.”

  “An imbalance exists,” said the woman.

  “Indeed it does,” said Mirko. “We have told you our names; you have not returned the courtesy.”

  She clucked and said: “I am the Ecclesiant Aharisse; I conduct certain rites Below the Temple. The imbalance relates not to empty formalities, but to the treatment of the Adept Minalgas Inisse, at the hands of the Elector Bartazan.”

  “Most reprehensible, I agree,” said Mirko. “It may be if you were to draw the matter to his attention that he would issue an apology. I would happy to act as an intermediary if necessary.”

  Aharisse frowned. Her fair hair was piled high on her head, her robe cut to reveal an alabaster expanse of skin above her breast; she did not carry herself as a woman accustomed to debate or opposition. “Your idea is at best witless. Bartazan is not a man of humility or piety. It is necessary to find other ways of restoring equilibrium.”

  “Perhaps a token payment as fiduciary damages?”

  “You fail to understand the gravity of the offence. It is not just Inisse who has been wronged by Bartazan but Animaxian Himself. In such a context, talk is callow.”

  “I sense,” interjected Florian, “that you already have a different idea.”

  “I do,” said Aharisse. “Animaxian demands the blood of those responsible for the slight.”

  “I rather thought he might,” said Mirko wearily. “I find it unlikely that the Elector will consent to appear before you.”

  “The God will accept the repentance of proxies on this occasion,” replied Aharisse. “In the circumstances the three of you will suffice.”

  “Out of interest,” said Trajian, “how does Animaxian communicate such subtle and precise information? I believe he lacks corp
oreal form.”

  “It is late — far far too late — in your earthly existence to begin to understand the doctrines of Animaxian. What lies beyond this life, I can say no more than you. It may be that your perplexities are resolved at this point.”

  “Under the circumstances,” said Trajian, “I am content to remain in ignorance.”

  “Enough!” said Aharisse haughtily. “Animaxian will be appeased tomorrow. You need not concern yourself that His wishes have been incorrectly interpreted; my information is exact and unequivocal. Your conduct displays an unseemly levity, and I will allow you until the morning to prepare yourselves for the events to come. I warn you, a sacrifice of this nature to Animaxian is a serious and solemn rite: if you profane it by whatever means, it will be necessary to chastise you.”

  Trajian responded: “But if we’re going to —”

  “I have listened to enough,” said Aharisse. “I sense you are unwilling to adopt an appropriate humility. This is regrettable, but the rite must proceed nonetheless. Good night to you.”

  Aharisse made a curious devotional gesture with her hands and left the cell, which was immediately locked behind her.

  Sleep proved a limited commodity that night; no sooner had Mirko drifted into a fitful doze with dawn approaching than the lapping of the incoming tide wetted his feet and banished all further thoughts of rest. Florian was similarly discommoded and set up a great bellow: “Hoy there! What kind of treatment is this? Our quarters are somewhat damp!”

  “Patience in there!” called an Animaxianite from outside the cell. “You will be making ample acquaintance of water soon enough.”

  The key turned slowly in the lock, and a body of armed guards entered. Trajian and Florian immediately threw themselves against the Animaxianites and were subdued with harsh and effective force. Mirko shook his head; this had not been an intelligent use of what might well have been their last opportunity to effect an escape.

  The guards led Mirko along the passageway, while Florian and Trajian were dragged with less ceremony. Up several flights of stairs they went, slippery with either seaweed or mould, and giving off a noisome odour. Presently they emerged into a large cavern, lit with lanthorns of impressive scope.

  One side of the chamber was packed with sober and expectant Animaxianites; Mirko found it disconcerting to speculate on the likely cause of their anticipation. The far end of the chamber gave out on the sea, which flowed in through a grille to create a small central lake which formed the focal point of the space. Ripples on the surface of the water suggested something large lurked beneath.

  Aharisse stepped from within an alcove to address the three Garganet. Today her purple robe was trimmed with sea-green, a brooch at her breast depicting a creature with fins, a sinuous body and villainously long pair of jaws.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” she said. “I hope you have used your last night wisely and reached a degree of composure. Today you achieve the end of your earthly journey, assuage your crimes, and move purified into the company of Animaxian.”

  Florian looked at her through the one eye not closed by swelling; Trajian kept his own counsel as he mopped at his bleeding nose; and Mirko did not feel disposed either for expostulation or theological debate.

  “You see before you the Platform of Redemption,” said Aharisse. “You will briefly find yourself affixed to the Platform while I make various small incisions; at this point you will be consigned to the Pool, where you will meet Animaxian: an honour of which you should be fully conversant.”

  “I cannot express my gratitude,” murmured Trajian.

  Aharisse turned her attention from Mirko. “Ah,” she said, “the bold and defiant one. I think we will wait awhile; you may find the fates of your comrades — edificatory. You,” she continued, turning to Mirko, “are their leader?”

  Mirko nodded. “You too,” she said, “should witness the consequences of your follies before expiating them.”

  She turned to Florian. “So you will make the acquaintance of Animaxian first.”

  Florian appeared groggy but still summoned the energy to spit. Aharisse gave a reproving look, which in the circumstances was of limited effect. Acolytes took Florian’s arms and dragged him to the ‘Platform of Redemption’, where he was secured with gentle but effective restraint. Another acolyte walked to the side of the pool and threw in a foul-stinking mess of fish entrails. A giant pair of jaws broke the surface, clearly the model for Aharisse’s brooch.

  “Gods preserve us!” breathed Trajian. “They have a woe-fish.”

  Mirko said nothing. The predacity of the woe-fish was legendary. Once they were in the pool, they were dead men.

  Aharisse raised her knife high.

  “Impious servant of Bartazan!” she declaimed. “You have committed terrible blasphemy and sacrilege against the Adept of Animaxian. The god is just, and he decrees a just expiation. I make the incisions of repentance –” two moderate cuts were made on Florian’s arms “– to alert Animaxian to the arrival of a penitent.”

  Mirko doubted that the woe-fish whom the Animaxianites appeared to take as an avatar of their god needed the clarification represented by the ‘incisions of repentance’: the entrails appeared to have wakened its appetite and it circled the pool with a beady eye on the platform – clearly not the first time it had represented the source of its dinner.

  “And now, Profane One, meet your fate!”

  “HALT IN THE NAME OF THE PEREMPTOR!” called a voice from the entrance to the cavern. “Desist immediately!”

  Aharisse turned in dismay. Mirko’s gaze followed, to see twenty or so armed Peremptor’s Constables.

  “What do you mean by this intrusion?” snapped Aharisse.

  The Constable who had spoken stepped forward. “My name is Vaidmantas; I am Lieutenant of the Peremptor’s Constables, and my writ is law. Release these men immediately!”

  Aharisse lifted her chin defiantly. “You have no jurisdiction over ecclesiastical affairs.”

  Vaidmantas, a trim figure with mocking grey eyes, made a deprecatory gesture. “The practice of human sacrifice, as you are well aware, is illegal in every aspect. The Third Consistory of Animaxian acknowledges that the god is equally well satisfied with the sacrifice of sheep and goats. There are those theologians – a realm into which I do not venture – who would even argue that you yourself commit a blasphemy by readying a human sacrifice.”

  Aharisse turned her back. “Enough. This is a jackpate, a puling nonentity. Let the rite proceed.”

  Two acolytes stepped forward to release Florian’s bonds to allow him to pitch forward into the pool; two Constables’ arrows sang and the acolytes fell dead to the floor. The other acolytes stared in bewilderment, clearly with no appetite whatsoever for a fight. Mirko nodded in silent approval; Vaidmantas understood the value of a display of force.

  “This shall not be!” cried Aharisse in a passion. Seeing the Constables freeing Florian, she instead launched herself with her sacrificial knife at Mirko. “You are the main culprit, and you must die!”

  Mirko ducked as Aharisse flew at him, her hair escaping from its bun. She landed heavily on the stone floor dampened by the woe-fish’s leaping. Her foot slipped, and as if in slow motion she toppled backwards towards the pool, frantically flailing for balance.

  “Help me!” she cried, holding out her arm to Mirko in supplication. Mirko had no desire to be dragged into the woe-fish’s pool and stepped well back. With a final scream Aharisse fell backwards, briefly vanishing under the surface with a splash. She resurfaced and tried to swim for the side; the woe-fish was faster. The water foamed for a moment, turned red, and then the Ecclesiant Aharisse was no more.

  After a silence Trajian turned to Mirko. “Curious that she was so ardent of the benefits of meeting Animaxian, yet proved so reluctant to avail herself of them.”

  “Indeed,” said Mirko. “A woman of naturally modest character, perhaps.”

  Trajian nodded. “That must have been the case.”
<
br />   Vaidmantas approached them. “Are you gentlemen unharmed?”

  Mirko nodded. “My companions and I are largely unscathed, for which we thank you. How did you know we were here?”

  Vaidmantas made an airy gesture. “Such rescues are the stock in trade of the Peremptor’s Constables. I am only glad we arrived in time.”

  “No gladder than we are, I assure you,” said Mirko with a smile. “You have our thanks.”

  Vaidmantas bowed, and walked with them into the sudden bright glare of the new day.

  CHAPTER 15

  I

  t was only two mornings later that the day of the Peremptor’s Nomination Ball dawned bright and sunny. Mirko lay in his bed until nearly midday, having previously arranged to give the crew a day away from Serendipity. He dressed with greater than usual care, selecting the plum and umber coat over a brilliant white shirt, breeches of a light grey, white gaiters and a pair of cutaway umber shoes. His lodgings were not equipped with a glass, so he had to take the overall effect on trust. Clambering astride Boodle, he rode at a gentle pace up the mountain road towards Formello.

  From the barbican Mirko’s approach was espied and two guards descended respectfully to swing wide the gate of the Henderbridge. Mirko raised a hand in salute and rode through into the inner ward where he dismounted. Liveried slaves took Boodle off to the stables and Mirko was escorted into the reception room inside the castle. There was an air of hushed expectancy about Formello: this was a significant day in the life of its master.

  Larien soon came down the stairs from her own apartments. “Mirko!” she called. “I should hardly have recognised you — you look quite the courtier.”

  Mirko politely inclined his head. Larien herself had taken great trouble over her own appearance and he could not remember ever seeing her so alluring. Her dress took as its basis the Azure, the main body a rich navy blue with sleeves of cerulean, and cuffs again of navy. The cut was daringly low, revealing a white expanse of chest and, to the probing eye, a little more. Her hair was piled on her head in an elaborate coiffure, and two large sapphires depended from her ears; another hung around her neck on a silver chain. Mirko found the total effect utterly captivating.