Now they raised the pace to a gallop. Swords were in hands, and many of the men had their visors down. They had come for war. Even the DCI found his hand fastened tight around his loaded gun.
Suddenly before them was a city of tents, multi-coloured, with banners flapping atop them all. The grey bat, on the red field, of Earl Cavidir, The yellow bear, on a red and green striped field, of Earl Harold. The green deer on a brown field, of Duke Vo Stike. The Golden magpie on a blue field of Viscount Lurkin. And the silver crescent on a gold field for Duke Von Kruges.
“What a sight.” Sethlon had donned his helm, and spoke through the golden barred visor. “That we all stand here against our queen. It is a wonder.”
And then there was a great shout, and a giant bear-like man strode towards them, a giant grin plastered across his face, and his surcoat bedecked in red, green and yellow.
“My lord Sethlon!” The bellow reached their ears.
“My lord Harold!” The Duke replied. “Rosium has borne you here, I see!”
“Indeed she has.” His arm stretched up and his meaty paw encased Sethlon’s hand. “The Queen may be my daughter, but I have greater loyalties than to family.”
Pouchii realised who he was; the Earl Harold of Penstemon, one time consort to the last queen, Kyten the great. The Harolds were a very old family, and he was the present queen’s father. His presence here was doubtless disconcerting to the queen.
“Have you come to join us?” Harold asked, gesturing to the knights around Sethlon.
“Of course.” Sethlon smiled. “I couldn’t let down you or Cavidir.”
“Or for that matter Von Kruges.” The Earl was referring to another of the rebel lords. One whose family were infamous bankers. “Seeing as most of us owe him money.”
“Quite.” Sethlon let out a thin lipped smile. “Mind you, I think my balance with him is positive at the moment.”
“Not quite.” A man in a rather dapper suit emerged from one of the tents. “I think you’re about twenty pence down at the moment.”
“Von Kruges, you rouge!” Harold bellowed. “There you are!”
“Indeed.” The banker lord astutely eyed Sethlon and his men up. “I suppose our friend Sethlon is not here to discuss his bank balance.”
“Sadly not.” Sethlon drew his sword. “I am here to keep my allegiance with the people of Saliman.”
“As are we all.” Kruges touched the pommel of a sabre attached to his belt. “And I fear we must descend into the meeting room. Cavidir will want to know where you stand.”
“Must we?” Harold grumbled. “I think our time would be much better spent feasting, or jousting, or…”
“We must.” Kruges cut him off. “Plans don’t make themselves, you know.”
“Neither do suppers.” The Earl muttered, but nodded to Kruges. “Let us get going, then.”
Sethlon nodded, and dismounted, with a clunk, on to the ground.
“Men, set up a Sethlon camp across the way. I shall speak with you later, Rosium willing.” The knights nodded, taking Sethlon’s horse out of the way, and riding off to the east. Before Pouchii could ask him what to do, the General had turned his horse away and ridden off elsewhere. Pouchii turned the head of his horse to follow, but suddenly there was a servant in his way, dressed in an odd combination of black, gold, white and orange.
“Sir, I have an urgent summons for you. Saliman needs you.”
The tent the man guided Pouchii to was in the middle of nowhere. No-one had dared to pitch any others nearby, and an air of cold silence hung in the air. It was undistinguished by colour, and bore no flag. As the drapings were drawn back, the DCI was half expecting Death himself to come stalking out of the shadows.
Lady Hestia Sethlon sliced through the air towards him, Her black robe of morning now gone, replaced with an icy blue dress that looked as if the tailor had cut it with a sword rather than a pair of scissors. And she bore a naked steel blade by her side.
“Malcolm.” Her voice sounded like ice melting. “I called you here to discuss the Viscount Takka.”
“Your husband.” Pouchii was blunt.
“My late husband.” Her lips cracked into a smile.
“You know, there is still a high chance that he may be alive.”
“What have you managed to find, then?”
“That the attack, if I can call it that, was carried out by assassins from Erodium acting under the orders of Viscount Napoleon Von Frederick.”
“The Queen’s husband.” Her voice was cold and calculating. And then it melted into softness. “Malcolm, will you come inside. We have much else to discuss.”
He followed her into the tent. There were little furnishings, and lots of paperwork scattered around the floor and on a selection of desks. It was a very calculating space. Quite nippy, too.
She turned, her dress slicing through the air, and those eyes fixing on his.
“Malcolm, I will be quite blunt with you.”
“That will be a change.”
“Quite.” She smiled, her lips toying with the contemplation of laughter. “The thing is, Malcolm, my late husband was a liar and a coward.”
“I was aware he was a politician.”
“Even more so than most politicians. He was loyal to only two things; power and money. And the queen wielded both.”
“Are you telling me that Takka Masala, the antimonarchist democrat was actually loyal to the queen?”
“Yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole affair wasn’t concocted to allow him and his queen to seize power. He couldn’t turn against his party and the people of Saliman without some serious questions being raised. So he disappeared. I bet that in a few months he would have turned up again and proclaimed himself loyal to the queen, after she had persuaded the government to vote themselves out of power.”
“But that backfired somewhat. I mean, there are people storming down the streets of Saliman screaming ‘Death to the monarchy!’ That’s hardly a swift transition of power to the queen.”
“Exactly. So, soon, the queen will be forced to make him reveal that he’s still in hiding, and the reasoning behind it. And she’ll hope that that will put an end to the rebellion. Except that all those noblemen and women who turned against her will have to be punished. So she will consolidate her power, and all of the Cavidirs, Harolds, Sethlons and von Kruges will be killed.”
“So what do you plan to do about that?”
“I was hoping that you would go and find my husband and make sure he doesn’t come out of hiding.”
“And how am I meant to do that?”
Hestia reached across and laid her hand lightly on Pouchii’s holstered gun.
“No.” The DCI turned. “I do not assassinate people.” He strolled, angry, to the tent exit.
“Malcolm.” Her voice pierced across the empty air between them. He stopped and turned, his face red and furious. “Don’t go. There’s something else.”
“No.” And she swept towards him, her dress billowing and her sharp lips slicing into his. Pouchii barely had enough time to breathe.
They parted, Pouchii’s lips feeling chapped and numb from the cold steel kiss. He found himself gasping for breath, and staring hopelessly into those iron-eyes.
“Lady Sethlon…”
“Hestia, please.” Her lips bent into a smile. “Do you understand?”
“You… What… No.” The DCI’s words tripped over each other, his tongue feeling chilled and useless.
“Malcolm, I need you to fire that bullet.” Her cold fingers traced the veins in his hands. “For us. Saliman can burn in hell for all I care, but you… I need you alive, and by my side. If Lord Masala were to return from the dead…”
He gazed into her eyes once again. Heftun it, he thought. He’d killed enough people before now. What difference was one little Viscount going to make to his conscience. Living your life “In memory of those who fell defending peace” was all very well and good, but you had to survive in order to live t
hat life. This way was better for everyone.
“Malcolm?” Those cold eyes were waiting.
“I’ll do it.” His head nodded, and his mind screamed.
“Oh, Malcolm.” And her arms were round him again, pulling him tight, holding him close, freezing his heart with her chilling embrace. He lost himself in the cold.
“My knight in shining armour.” Her voice trickled into his ear. He let his eyes tremble shut and his spine shiver.
And then she stepped out of that crushed-ice embrace, her eyes and voice alert and awake as before.
“Malcolm, I fear we are needed by my brother and his friends. Without directions nobles tend to make the wrong decisions.”
“But aren’t you…”
“Malcolm, I may be an aristocrat, but I am also half intelligent. An unusual combination, I’ll grant you, but not exceptional. My brother, on the other hand, leans toward the other side of the scale.” She swept clear of the tent opening, leaving Pouchii standing for a few seconds contemplating what had happened, before he let his feet stride out into the daylight.
The camp was a hive of activity, with armed men rushing this way and that, all bedecked in the colours of one of Salimans old families. The DCI felt quite out of place in his police uniform, and Hestia looked as if she should be in a ballroom, as she walked briskly in the direction of the Meeting Tent, a rather battered old tent dressed in the colours of Saliman itself; white and light blue.
“Malcolm, I will instruct a Saliman Secret Service squad to assist you in your little mission. I believe you have met the General, so he should suffice.”
“How do you know about the SSS? Even your brother didn’t know that they even existed.”
“I know more than you could possibly even imagine in your wildest dreams.” She gave him one of those cryptic icy smiles.
“I don’t know,” Pouchii muttered. “I have some pretty… vivid… dreams.”
Suddenly she stopped and gazed out towards the outer extremities of the camp. Towards where a column of dust was rising up into the sunlit sky.
“What on Saliman is that?” Pouchii followed her pointed finger. “It almost looks like a band of mounted knights…”
As they came closer it became clearer. The jolting banners that flapped in the wind above them reflected the light from their shining armour and battered surcoats. Light greens and blues mingled into a dappled forest of lances and shields. Shields which bore a single prancing silver stallion.
“Rosium above.” Hestia let out a gasp of surprise. “Duke Catchbridge.”
It shocked Pouchii too. Catchbridge was a staunch supporter of the queen and a fervent monarchist. That he was here was almost certainly worrying. Perhaps the queen had decided to end the democrat’s project before it had even started with fire and sword.
They cantered forwards, not a single man daring to stand in their way. At their head, the knight whose helm bore the Duke’s coronet had his sword drawn and his visor down. He stood tall and proud in the saddle, his crest, yet another prancing horse, gazed down with its nose firmly up in the air, its own horsehair mane bouncing as the Duke rode.
Shortly, the only people between the horsemen and the tent were Pouchii and Hestia. The policeman felt for his pistol. If he was going first, he was going to take the Duke with him. But the horses were reigned in, and stood there, snorting and stamping, mere metres away.
And then the man to the Duke’s right lifted his visor and let out a mighty roar;
“The fifth horseman rideth!” The motto and war cry of house Sethlon for centuries. The shout that preceded the slaughter.
Behind Hestia and Pouchii, the lords of the democratic committee assembled in expectation. Cavidir, dressed in light plate armour, his sword hand at his hilt, Harold, jovially bedecked in red, green and gold, his great stomach leaning before him, and his huge war hammer leaning on that, Duke von Stike, in green and brown over his armour, Viscount Lurkin, with a heavy gold and blue cloak wrapped around his bare steel armour, Von Kruges, in his suit, with a small patch over his heart showing the family crest in gold and silver, and finally Hestia’s brother, in full plate armour, with the Sethlon colours of black and gold enamelled into the panels and helm. His sword was drawn, and the blank-faced helm of Duke Catchbridge seemed to be looking apprehensively at it.
“And for what cause does Duke Straiden Catchbridge of Procan, knight defender of the monarchs of Saliman and Knight Commander of Her Majesty Queen Hunri’s Royal Guard ride here today?” Cavidir’s voice rang out loud and clear over the packed field of tents.
There was a long silence.
“He doesn’t.” The voice of the helmed figure echoed Cavidir’s.
“Then who stands in his colours?” Cavidir’s face held a puzzled look.
“The Duke Catchbridge,” The man swung down from his horse, doffing his helm while he did so, revealing a proud thin face, with a high nose, sleek black hair, and silvery eyes. “Duke of Procan, and knight of Saliman. Toln Catchbridge, son of the late Duke.”
“Your father is…” Cavidir spoke tentatively, as if he feared the answer.
“I cannot vouch for his body, but his head is on a spike atop the East Gate.” Catchbridge had a bitter tinge to his voice.
“Rosium protect his soul.” Cavidir crossed himself, and many of the nobles and knights followed his lead.
“Lord Catchbridge.” Sethlon’s voice rumbled over the field, as the lord crossed over to the young Duke. “My sword shall not be still until he is avenged, and the queen’s head sits beside your father’s.”
“Thank you.” Catchbridge took the lord’s mailed hand in his own. “But I hope it is my own sword which ends this charade of a monarch.”
“I trust then that you join us?” Cavidir broached the question, although all now knew the answer.
“By Rosium’s staff and her sacred donkey, this sword will be democracy’s until it withers away and dies.” Catchbridge unsheathed his well-oiled sabre, and held it before him, letting the light dance over it. All around them the tension seemed to dissolve, and Von Kruges was directing the Duke’s men over to a patch of field yet to have patterned tent erected over it, to site their camp. The man himself was waved forwards, into the meeting tent, as all of the lords filed in, Hestia and Pouchii bringing up the rear.
The tent was filled with tables and chairs. Banners hung about the walls, and important knights and tacticians stood round in uniform or full armour, medals glinting, and charts and maps strewn around the table tops. Several men were jabbering at each other, pointing at lines drawn on the maps, demonstrating offensives and battle manoeuvres.
The nobles sat quickly and quietly, several looking in extreme discomfort in their full plate armour, whilst Von Kruges, although he looked a little out of place in his suit, looked much more comfortable sitting on the hard wooden campaign chairs. Pouchii and Hestia stood round, watching the plan unfold.
“We need to attack the queen’s forces soon. People are besieged and cut off in South Saliman by the queen’s more loyal troops at present.” Cavidir explained to the young Duke. “I few advance on the city, she is bound to march out her army to meet us, though. I mean, you can’t expect to hold Saliman when the people inside are rioting, and if she does managed to crush us then she will be able to persuade the people to put up their arms.”
“Earl Cavidir has already suggested a solid central block framed by two wings of mounted knights.” Sethlon quickly outlined for Catchbridge. “The idea was that Cavidir would hold the centre with Von Stike and Lurkin, while I held the left flank, and Von Kruges and Harold the right.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” Catchbridge responded. “The queen will put her toughest knights on her right – that’s standard tactical practice, so you are well placed to stop the charge that is bound to hit the left flank. And Cavidir will provide the main base for an attack with an infantry core. And the right wing can be used to make any offensives we need to make.”
“Unfortunate
ly we can’t get reinforcements from the city – the queen’s siege has put a stop to that. So we’ll just have to use the troops we’ve got.” Sethlon explained. “They’re well trained, highly motivated, and loyal to the end. Whereas the queen’s men will be demoralised and uncertain of their leader after a few hours spent trying to control their rioting fellow citizens. All we need to do is hit them hard and fast and hope they break.”
“Sorry if I interrupt, gentlemen, but wouldn’t a better tactic be to try and force the main gates to South Saliman at night?” Hestia spoke up. “That way they’ll be less casualties and the queen will still surrender just as quickly – with a large army encamped outside her citadel.”
“Firstly, the gates are too well defended.” Her brother acknowledged her presence for the first time. “They were built to stand against all the sieges in the worlds. And secondly, if the queen surrenders, we have another problem on our hands.”
The Viscount Connection Page 9
