Sabazel

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  “Look,” Patros said loudly. “Some of the outriders are dressed in the livery of the temple!”

  “We are honored by a visit from His Eminence the grand inquisitor,” said Mardoc from the corner of his mouth.

  “You knew this, and the king did not?” Mardoc’s back stiffened. Patros lowered his voice, leaned forward, spoke clearly through his teeth. “I should take care what secret correspondence I conduct. Its purpose could be … misinterpreted.”

  “Mind your manners,” Mardoc growled, and Patros contented himself with rolling his eyes at the back of the general’s head.

  A roll of hoofbeats, the panting breaths of the oxen, the creaking of the fabric-covered carts as they lurched off the Road marked the caravan’s arrival at the far side of the ditch surrounding the embankment; as it halted a herald stepped forward. “Your permission. General Mardoc, to enter the king’s encampment.”

  “You are welcome,” the general returned. At his gesture the soldiers of the honor guard drew their swords and clashed them, raggedly, against their shields.

  From the leading cart stepped Adrastes Falco, the talon of Harus. His traveling cloak was brown, woven like a cascade of feathers; the winged breastplate glinted darkly from its opening. His hair and beard were as clean and glossy as if he had just stepped from his bath; his eyes glittered, sly and sharp, raking the group of men before him. “Greetings, General,” he said.

  Mardoc bowed. “We are honored by your visit. Your Eminence. Please, enter …”

  Adrastes walked in stately tread forward, his booted feet barely pressing the ground. “Is my lord well?” he asked.

  “The king has yet to return from the quest you directed, Your Eminence,” replied Mardoc, “but a messenger only this morning brought word that he has indeed found the sword Solifrax.”

  “The oracle speaks the truth,” Adrastes stated. He lifted his arms, spreading his hands in a liturgical gesture, and declaimed, “Surely Harus smiles upon his son and his devoted followers.”

  A roar of approval came from the assembled soldiers. “In the name of the god,” Mardoc said. Adrastes lowered his hands.

  “The king will be pleasantly surprised by Your Eminence’s arrival,” said Patros. Whether the legionaries were more pleased by the arrival of the priest or of fresh supplies was hard to tell.

  Adrastes snapped around and speared the young man with his gaze. But Patros was bent in a gracious bow, and his expression was hidden. “Yes, yes indeed,” the priest said, committing himself to nothing. He turned his back on Patros and took Mardoc’s arm, guiding him into his own encampment.

  Patros nodded and smiled and sidled away, murmuring something about seeing to Adrastes’s entourage. The priest did not look around at Patros’s words but flicked his free hand in the gesture of dismissal due a servant. His rings, onyx and topaz, caught a low ray of the sun and sparked.

  The black-clad outriders swarmed after Adrastes; the drivers plied their whips across the broad backs of the oxen, urging them into the encampment. Patros rolled his eyes again and slipped ahead to the open space set aside for the priest’s tents.

  The dark clouds bulged halfway across the sky now, and the sun, admitting defeat, retreated into an early twilight. A guttural rumble of thunder rolled across the torn and wasted lands surrounding the encampment; a chill breeze fluttered the scarlet and purple pennons streaming from the peak of the gold pavilion.

  Patros walked among Adrastes’s guards and servants, giving directions. A shimmer of lightning caught his eye and he looked upward at the sudden darkness, regarding the approaching storm with the weary resignation of a soldier.

  Then his eye fell. He stopped dead, causing the bustling attendants to eddy around him. That cart, there—the livery of the palace, and a hooded figure handed down by an acolyte of the temple …

  “By all the gods,” he muttered under his breath, and he leaped forward, his cloak flying in the wind.

  “My thanks,” he heard Chryse say to the acolyte.

  The priest bowed. “I must attend to His Eminence’s quarters, but if you have need …”

  “My lady!” Patros shouted. “Chryse, how come you here?”

  Chryse’s hand darted upward to secure her fluttering cowl around her face. Her wide, guileless eyes, rimmed with the dark smudges of exhaustion, blinked out of shadow. “Why, Patros,” she said, as if he were the last person she’d expected to see. And, “I shall call, Declan.”

  Declan disappeared like a wisp of smoke into the hurrying throng. Torches flared around the camp. Patros offered his arm to Chryse and she took it gratefully, leaning almost her whole weight on him, stumbling as he guided her to Bellasteros’s own tent. “You may rest here,” he told her, “while your attendants prepare your quarters.”

  “Oh,” she said when she saw the table littered with maps, the narrow camp bed, the chests of armor and booty. “Oh, I would not intrude on my lord.”

  “He is not here,” Patros told her. He set her on a chair close to the warm brazier and sent a pageboy scurrying for wine. “He brings the sword Solifrax to battle.”

  Chryse let the cowl fall from her head; she patted at the crumpled coils of her hair. Her soft mouth tightened. “He rides with her, the witch-queen?”

  The wine arrived. Patros poured a goblet full and watched her while she drank deeply. Her cheeks flushed. “He is with the witch-queen?” she insisted.

  Patros exhaled. “She guided him to the sword. Perhaps she can be persuaded to bring her warriors here.”

  “Here? Why?”

  “As allies in the coming battle,” he explained patiently. “To gain the Empire.”

  Chryse sighed and folded her hands in her lap. “I understand nothing of military tactics. I know only to fear for my lord.”

  “As do we all,” Patros returned. He lit a lamp and busied himself again with the maps. “Did you have an easy journey?”

  “His Eminence assures me that it was not difficult. But”— her voice grew as faint and wistful as a tired child’s—”it was so long, Patros, so many leagues; it is cold here, and Sardis is so far behind us …”

  Thunder shook the mound of the encampment, and a few raindrops thudded like arrows against the fabric of the tent. Chryse started and squeaked like a small animal when the trap closes around it. Patros threw down the maps, bent over her, offered some gentle and soothing words. “And why,” he went on, just as gently, “did His Eminence tear you from the palace?”

  “For the same reason he tore himself from the temple. We are here to ease my lord’s burdens.”

  Patros winced. “Indeed,” he said dryly. “Or he thought to use you for his own purposes.”

  “Use me? But I am only—”

  The tent flap parted, admitting a gust of wet wind and a glimpse of lightning. Mardoc strode in, removing his damp cloak. “Chryse!” he said heartily, and he advanced toward the woman with arms outstretched.

  “Oh, Father,” she returned, throwing herself at him. The relief in her voice was plain; here was one who could answer all uncertainties. She emerged from a rough embrace telling him about the journey. “… and the settlers at Farsahn have raised a temple to Harus—”

  Mardoc pulled her cowl back over her face, cutting her off, and shoved her toward the doorway where a serving-woman waited. “Your quarters are ready. Go rest, my dear.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said. And, glancing back at Patros, “Thank you—” Mardoc dropped the tent flap in her face.

  Patros swallowed his farewell as Mardoc also shoved at him. “I need to consult with His Eminence,” the general said. “Surely you have duties elsewhere.”

  “I can make some,” said Patros. And added, “Such a pleasant surprise, is it not, to see your daughter here? The first wife of the king, come so unexpectedly to his side …”

  Mardoc was opening the maps. He glanced up from under his brows. “What of it?”

  “Nothing, sir, nothing at all.” Patros turned with a grimace and peered outside.
The rain poured down, making of the encampment a dim tapestry picked with the bright threads of lightning bolts. A dark shape followed by attendants was splashing toward the tent.

  The young man vanished into the night. Mardoc groaned, as if seized by a sudden tiredness. “You never used to be such an insolent puppy, Patros. Why, why now?”

  Adrastes burst into the tent, closed the flap behind him, shook rivulets of water from his cloak. “Well, my general,” he began, “you seem to have the situation well in hand. He has the sword, you say?”

  Mardoc shook off his weariness and bowed. “Thank you, Your Eminence. And yes, he does. He should return on the morrow.”

  Adrastes seated himself, picked up Chryse’s abandoned goblet, sniffed at it, and drank. “As I told you in my last letter, Mardoc, I am concerned about the king’s dealings with this witch-queen. You have met her?”

  “A sly one. Your Eminence. A most unwomanly woman.”

  “Now that we have used her to secure the sword, we must dispose of her and her people. Surely a handful of women warriors cannot make any difference in the battle plan.”

  Mardoc snorted in derision.

  “We must purge Bellasteros of her influence and return him to the embrace of his father the falcon. He must prove his devotion to Harus and repudiate the taint of … Ashtar.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. How else can we bring the name of the god to the Empire and stamp out their pernicious worship of the lesser deities?”

  Adrastes nodded. His brows closed like wings over the glitter of his eyes; his eyes searched the interior of the tent as if they could see within each chest and through the hangings of the bed, as if they could see the very thoughts and dreams of the head that had rested there. He toyed with the onyx ring on his finger, drawing it off and replacing it. “It was rumored once,” he said, his voice laden with sorrow and regret, “that Viridis, Gerlac’s last wife and the mother of the king, was dedicated to Ashtar. And there were worse rumors.”

  “Spite,” scoffed Mardoc. “Jealousy of such a prince as Bellasteros. His mother was indeed a princess of the Empire, tainted with their strange gods, and her death was … timely. It was with pleasure that I razed the temple of Ashtar and put her whores to the sword. It is said, true, that Gerlac was not the father of the king. But if he was not, then Harus himself was. I will believe nothing else.”

  “Of course not. But you must admit that Bellasteros has all his life been touched by this heresy of Ashtar’s. I would not have him bewitched by Ashtar’s minions.” Adrastes allowed himself a delicate shiver. “Surely such has not happened?”

  “He is as courteous as becomes a king,” Mardoc replied. “And his temper remains as fine and free as ever. But bewitched—I know not. I am troubled, at times, that he would not agree to defeat Sabazel; but then, why turn aside from our course for such a place?”

  “Yes …” The priest removed the ring again and turned it thoughtfully in his fingers. It winked in the lamplight. The pounding rain grew lighter, but a slow leak started in one of the seams of the tent and Mardoc, with a curse, pulled the map table away.

  Adrastes laid the ring on the table and stood, stretching. “I must go conduct the evening worship,” he said. “Declan is a good lad, and serves well as the lady Chryse’s chaplain, but he has yet to achieve a certain … dedication. Are you coming?”

  “With pleasure.” Mardoc stepped forward to raise the tent flap. A few bedraggled figures, the waiting attendants, flocked around.

  “We shall bring this army victory,” stated Adrastes. “We shall win a victory for the god.”

  Mardoc smiled. “The king will be pleased by your devotion to him.”

  They trudged off into the darkness. The lamp guttered out behind them as if blown by beating wings. Under the edge of a pen box the onyx ring gleamed, blood-tinted by the embers in the brazier, blood-tinted by some internal light.

  *

  The storm blew itself out during the night, and the sun rose into a sky that was a taut, transparent blue membrane arching smoothly from horizon to horizon. A cold clean wind rang through the vault of heaven.

  Bellasteros came at midmorning. A shout went up from the sentries; an answering shout reverberated through the encampment, gathering force, becoming an avalanche of sound.

  The great warhorse was well ahead of the others. It pranced across the road and up the path to the gate, its hooves throwing clods of mud into the air as if distributing gold coins to the peasantry. It curvetted to a stop, jingling its harness. Bellasteros stilled it with a quiet word.

  His eyes were bright chips of adamant, his mouth was crimped in an arrogant smile. His look fell on the troops that lined the embankment, the knot of men before the gate, the peering squatters by the caravanserai, and all voices ceased. The harsh cry of a raven echoed down the wind.

  In one fluid movement Bellasteros pulled the sword Solifrax from its scabbard and thrust it into the air. It flared with an almost audible crack of lightning, brighter than the sun. The warhorse reared, its forefeet pawing the air. As one the Sardians cheered, the squatters fell prostrate, and the imperial officers made the deep formal obeisances due not only an emperor, but a god. Surely some of those same officers would report the king’s new power to Bogazkar.

  Patros rushed forward to take the reins of the horse, grinning. “Well done, my lord,” he said.

  Bellasteros slipped the sword back into its sheath and leaped from the horse. “And you, too, well done,” he said. “My thanks for the warning. Adrastes tried to kill Danica; sorcery, Patros, of the blackest hue.” Patros’s brows shot up; hastily he smoothed his expression. Bellasteros strode forward, crimson plume and crimson cloak streaming behind him.

  Mardoc’s eyes and mouth hung open, set in awestruck worship. With a start he remembered to bow. “Welcome, my lord,” he stuttered. “Welcome indeed.”

  So you are impressed with my new toy, Bellasteros said silently. Aloud he said, “My thanks. General. I am pleased to return.”

  And there, an eddy in the wind, the tall dark figure of Adrastes Falco. Those glittering eyes cut deep, too deep; play it well … Bellasteros feigned astonishment. “Your Eminence! What brings you here to the edge of the world?”

  The priest inclined his head. “I come only to serve my king in his hour of triumph.”

  “Very good! Come, I will explain our strategy.” Bellasteros swept by, returning the nod, deflecting the stare, leaving Adrastes to scuttle hurriedly, like an awkward lackey, in his wake.

  Patros turned the horse over to a page and slipped through the crowd to Bellasteros’s side. “My friend,” the king exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder, “I have seen some strange places since we last met. Surely Harus holds his wings outspread over me.”

  “Surely.” said Patros.

  Mardoc shook himself, shouted a few inconsequential orders to the rest of Bellasteros’s company, and strode with as much dignity as he could muster after the others. The gathered soldiers drifted away, oddly silent, as if returning from a solemn religious rite. The squatters crept forward to pry bits of dirt from the king’s footprints.

  From the corner of his eye Bellasteros saw Mardoc join the entourage. He saw Mardoc and Adrastes exchange a covert glance. So they are in league, he thought. But they are not yet against me. Mardoc, you used to be a father to me … and yet it is not you who have changed.

  He continued his monologue. “The land is laid waste; the Royal Road was once a flourishing trade route, but it now passes through country left to the lion and the jackal. It is time to conclude our conquest, establish our protection over the Empire, bring peace to the weary.”

  “Surely,” Patros said again.

  “Have the poor outside the gate been fed from the new supplies?”

  “As well as possible, with our own numbers swelling …” Patros glanced around meaningfully.

  Bellasteros nodded. A knot of petitioners was gathered before the gold pavilion and he stopped to chat briefly with each one.
He genuflected before the falcon standards, then turned aside for his own tent. There he paused in the doorway, glancing keenly upward at the scarlet and purple pennons whipping in the wind; the wind chimed, the music of Ashtar’s voice, but he knew that only he heard it.

  He handed Patros the sword; Patros grinned, took it gingerly, stood mesmerized by the play of light across the scabbard as Bellasteros peeled off his armor and threw himself down in a chair. “Gentlemen,” he said to Mardoc and Adrastes as they stood before him. “We move against Bogazkar. Iksandarun is perhaps ten days’ march along the Road, perhaps fourteen … We shall be there by the winter solstice.”

  “Good,” said Mardoc. “Let the satrap turn at bay at last.”

  Adrastes remained impassive, his brows angled slightly upward, alert to every fleeting expression on his king’s face.

  “I have bought allies for us,” continued Bellasteros. He reached out his hand and Patros, starting, laid the sword in it. “The queen of Sabazel and her Companions will ride with us.”

  Mardoc scoffed, “What good can a handful of women do?”

  “They took Azervinah for us, did they not? And the high priest commended their queen to me.”

  “To gain the sword,” protested Mardoc. “Surely she has served her purpose.”

  Bellasteros’s voice did not rise, but its intensity easily overrode Mardoc’s. “She serves Sardis. As for her purpose, let the gods decide.”

  Adrastes’s brows arched even higher. Quietly, silkily, he said, “You would allow a heretic to ride under the falcon standard? You are generous, my lord.”

  Bellasteros drew Solifrax. Even in the dimness of the tent its crystalline blade shimmered. He ran his thumbnail up its edge, shedding a spray of sparks. “Better to have her here, under the gaze of the falcon, than plotting against me in Sabazel. Do you not agree?”