by Damien Black
‘All right, all right,’ yelled the herald over the baying mob. ‘That’s your lot, you bloodthirsty scoundrels! Sir Torgun of Vandheim bests Sir Braxus of Gaellen in single combat and spares his life! A more chivalrous knight you could not hope to find in all the Free Kingdoms! Go get yourselves another ale, and drink a toast to Sir Torgun of Vandheim. TORGUN OF VAAAAANDHEIM!’
Raucous cheers went up as the placated peasants went to feed their other coarse habits. Adelko looked at Braxus standing in the rain and mud, a stricken expression on his face. He felt a stab of pity. He could sense the Thraxian’s turmoil: all his heroism of the previous days was undone, and he knew it. The dashing knight had lost the duel on every level.
It was only when the lists had been cleared and the bleachers were emptying that Adelko realised his sixth sense was still jangling.
CHAPTER XV
A State Funeral
‘Mortal man’s flame burneth but a short time, and is beset on all sides by the darkness of the grave…’ Cyprian’s crisp voice echoed about the chilly precinct of the Supreme Temple as he intoned the Last Rites.
Wolmar stared at Rodger’s corpse on the gold-filigreed bier. The Royal Embalmer had done his work well, stitching up the grievous wound that had killed him during his tragic hunting accident, and the Margrave of Narbo was certainly getting a splendid funeral. Four columns of marble pillars stretched from each side of the limestone dais they stood on, one for each of the Redeemer’s limbs. On the mosaic floor a richly detailed depiction of scenes from Palom’s life culminating in his ultimate sacrifice at Tyrannos completed the rendition. The entire circumference of the vast chamber was crammed with alcoves covered in gold leaf, each one containing a life-size statue of every saint and avatar in the Creed. Lining the gallery above were whitestone renditions of the Unseen; all the archangels and angels who had fought alongside the Almighty in the Battle for Heaven and Earth at the Dawn of Time.
Once the sight might have put Wolmar in awe; now it just sickened him. He was bound to a servant of the King of Gehenna: the very man who stood next to him now, his hands clasped together in pious devotion. The same man whose bed he had shared last night, in a passionate clinch the temple perfects would line up to condemn as sinful.
Conflicted did not begin to describe his state of mind. Tortured would have been nearer the mark. Yet every time he went to scream out the truth, an invisible hand clasped itself around his throat, choking the words from him before he could utter them.
The Supreme Perfect completed the rite, reverentially making the sign of the Wheel. He followed suit, feeling a hypocrite. He wondered how Ivon could even set foot in a temple, never mind pretend to mourn the very man he had sacrificed to Abaddon.
He had never been a godly man, Wolmar reflected as the assembled nobles took turns to pay their last respects. He had killed, sometimes without mercy or regard to age; he had fornicated and been arrogant and slandered those he envied. Yet he had always held himself loyal to his kin, and brave in the face of danger. He had always believed that between the fury of battle and the stillness of the grave there would be time to repent one’s sins, so he could seek the Afterlife with a clear conscience.
That opportunity was fading fast. He was in thrall to a man who had given up his soul to the Fallen Angel, and he would fall into darkness with him.
Unless he could work out a way to break the spell.
‘He was a jovial fellow and a noble,’ Sir Hugon was saying. ‘He shall be sorely missed…’ If the captain of the Purple Garter was at all insincere he gave no sign of it. Next to take up the thread was Sir Odo. ‘He always kept the kitchens busy with demands for wine and food…’ That got a chuckle: at least the Royal Seneschal was being honest. The margraves of Morvaine and Aquitania were next to speak. Their words were spare and cold; their court rivalry with Narbo was well known and there was little point in dissembling.
Then it was Ivon’s turn.
Clearing his throat, he spoke softly in a fruity voice. ‘He was my boon companion, my partner in crime as it were. Unto his very end we disported together…’ His voice seemed to catch. ‘I had more words to say, but now I find myself quite unable – oh how responsible I feel! If only I hadn’t taken him hunting!’ The Margrave of Vichy completed a masterful performance by sobbing into a sky blue handkerchief bordered at the hem with topaz stones.
‘Peace, Vichy!’ said Queen Isolte, turning in a bravura performance of her own. ‘You must not blame yourself for the will of Reus!’ Wolmar wondered bitterly if the words were actually being fed to her directly by Ivon. The King’s wife was yet another of his thralls: how his lover had delighted in telling him so the previous night.
‘Thank you, my Queen,’ Ivon snuffled. ‘I shall try to console myself with your kind words.’
While she consoles herself with the thought that you haven’t told her husband about her affair with Sir Hugon yet, thought Wolmar dryly. Now that his silence was ensured with sorcery, the Margrave seemed to delight in telling him of his plans. Queen Isolte had been brokering an alliance with the King of Thalamy, who also harboured ambitions in Vorstlund.
While Ivon simpered on, Wolmar’s mind drifted back to that morning in his suite at the palace.
It had been sunny, light streaming in through the high arched window of Ivon’s bedchamber. The Margrave had arisen early to dress, summoning his valet Gasper to help him select an outfit for the funeral.
‘What do you think of this bliaud?’ he asked, turning so Wolmar could see the finely ornamented white gown. It was studded with sapphires and moonstones, though the cut seemed strange for a man to wear.
‘You look like you’re about to take holy orders at a rich temple,’ said the princeling acidly. ‘What do you care for my opinion anyway?’ he added sullenly. Witnessing Rodger’s sacrifice and the realisation that his paramour was a warlock had diminished his feelings of adoration, though he still found it hard to refuse him anything.
The Margrave pouted. ‘Of course I still value your opinion… Just as long as it doesn’t conflict with my plans for domination of the Free Kingdoms.’
He laughed as Wolmar started. ‘Oh don’t worry about Gasper, he’s deaf as a quintain post, poor thing.’ Ivon motioned for the valet to remove the item of clothing. ‘It’s a funeral not a pleasure trip,’ he continued. ‘One should look somewhat… religious for a service in the seat of our Holy Mother Temple should one not?’
‘I wonder a dastard like you is able to stand a place of holy sanctuary,’ said Wolmar, his lip curling.
‘Ah, found our piety have we?’ said the Margrave, slipping out of the bliaud. ‘Well as it happens, a trip to the temple does sicken me. But the King of Gehenna rewards his faithful servants with fortitude beyond reckoning.’
Wolmar lay back on the four-poster bed, gazing up at the canopy in despair. Never in his worst nightmares had he expected to come to this. A death on the battlefield held no fears for him, but this...
‘Ye Almighty, why don’t you just kill me and have done with it?’ he said desperately.
‘And waste all that vigour and potential?’ said Ivon, running a lascivious tongue across his lips as he stepped into a black brocade cainsil with dagged sleeves picked out in purple. ‘Ah now that’s much better,’ he said, turning to survey his reflection in the body-length silver mirror. ‘Yes, it bespeaks of solemnity and sorrow, with just a hint of appropriate piety,’ he said, nodding at Gasper to show his approval. ‘Now I think the dark blue chausses will go well with that…’ He pointed at the pantaloons hanging on the wooden rack.
‘Kill you? Oh no,’ he continued. ‘You, my dear Wolmar, are going to taste glory on the battlefield for many years to come. As one of my marshals you shall help me to consolidate the new world order.’
‘One of demonolatry and sacrifice such as you had me witness the other night?’ snarled the princeling. He had scarcely liked Rodger, but no man deserved that.
‘The Master’s teachings are not for the faint
of heart,’ said Ivon, a hint of steel entering his voice as he stepped into the chausses and allowed Gasper to belt a girdle around the pantaloons and cainsil. ‘In any case, first things first. Vorstlund must be conquered, then the King must be deposed and his children disposed of. After that I will assume the throne with the support of the nobles who’ve agreed to back me in return for… certain concessions. So there’ll be plenty of fighting to be done.’
Wolmar got up and helped himself to watered wine from a silver ewer. ‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, wishing the wine were undiluted.
The Margrave favoured him with a frustrated moue. ‘Oh do try to sound excited,’ he said. ‘I would have thought you’d be delighted at the prospect of slaughtering enemies and looting castles to your heart’s content!’
‘Not against my own free will,’ spat Wolmar. ‘And not at risk of perdition of my soul!’ Knocking back the contents of the goblet he slammed it down on the mahogany table.
‘Oh my, but you really are quite the pious one,’ sighed Ivon. ‘Who’d have known? I could always send you off on crusade with Lord Uthor and the southern nobles. Though I’d really prefer to keep you – ’
‘I want to fight for my country!’ yelled Wolmar. ‘I’m a knight of the White Valravyn, sworn to protect Northalde! That means something!’ He had rediscovered his loyalty in the past few days, though that wasn’t enough to break the enchantment.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ said Ivon, his face darkening. ‘You are bound to a much larger fate now. The old kings and their countries won’t exist for much longer – the sooner you accept that the easier it will go for you.’
Picking up the goblet Wolmar hurled it across the room in frustrated rage. It rang loudly off a sconce on the far wall. Gasper went on with his work, oblivious, helping the Margrave into a black pair of pointed shoes fashioned of deerskin leather.
‘And I think this chapperon will go well…’ Ivon motioned towards the black velvet cape, worked with agates set in bizarre swirling patterns. ‘Our Sassanian friends certainly know their gemwork,’ he added approvingly as his valet fastened it around his neck. ‘You know you really mustn’t throw temper tantrums, Wolmar darling – what will our neighbouring guests think? Now… Ah, yes, perfect… What think you, my sweet prince?’
‘I think you look like a Left-Hand magician hell bent on taking over the Known World,’ said Wolmar sarcastically.
He wasn’t entirely surprised when Ivon burst into laughter. ‘How very sardonic of you,’ purred the Margrave. ‘Why yes, so I do! And all this time, right under their noses – the dolts never suspecting until it’s too late…’
He turned from the mirror to look at Wolmar. A crooked smile played across his lips, an expression halfway between lust and triumph on his face.
‘Now, I think it’s time we dressed you, my sweetling. Come here, I’ve the perfect doublet and breeches for you…’
Wolmar felt Ivon nudging him in the elbow, bringing him back to the echoing temple. It was his turn to speak. All the other nobles including Aravin and Kaye had had their say. Wolmar cleared his throat, conscious of his thickly accented Decorlangue as he said: ‘I knew him but short time. He made me feel welcome as a lord of men should. May his soul rest in peace.’
Aravin and Kaye looked at each other and smirked. The King was last to speak, in accordance with custom.
‘He served the Ruling House of Ambelin well and loyally, as his ancestors have done since the days of the Fourth Royal War. House Oraunt of Narbo has lost a faithful scion.’
Carolus nodded at Cyprian, who made the sign again. Everyone followed suit. Glancing sidelong at Ivon, Wolmar caught his hand as he brought it down to his chest. The fingers were curled rather than splayed in the proper sign of devotion. He didn’t have time to see if Aravin and Kaye had done the same.
Nor Morvaine come to that… he was part of the planned invasion of Vorstlund, but was he part of Ivon’s coup plot? And if so, did he know who Ivon really served? Vichy’s scheming seemed to operate on a multitude of levels.
Pallbearers dressed in gowns of white samite covered with red scapulars took up the bier, taking it from the dais down marble steps towards the red carpeted walkway leading back to the temple entrance. Courtiers lined the aisles flanking the nave, throwing white roses down as the pallbearers passed. The household of Ambelin followed solemnly.
The Knights of the Purple Garter were standing outside, flanking the temple gates. They drew their swords in a formal salute as the pallbearers passed by, slowly descending broad stairs that perambulated the temple in ever increasing circles down to the flagstoned plaza of Temple Square below. There the common folk of Rima had gathered to watch the procession.
All this for a fat oaf who could barely couch a lance, thought Wolmar as they descended the sun-drenched stairs. Perhaps Ivon has a point about sweeping away the old order.
Glancing sidelong at his lover he noticed how pale and drawn he was. Perhaps the King of Gehenna’s fortitude only went so far.
Temple Square was set atop the southernmost of the five hills surrounding Rima; the procession would take them through the heart of the city to Regus Square on the other side of it where the Palace of White Towers was. There Lord Rodger’s body would be laid in waiting for collection by a retinue from Narbo, who would bear it back to his ancestral seat in Castle Beaumure.
As they passed along the Way of Kings, Rima’s main thoroughfare, Wolmar picked up more than a few discontented jeers from the townsfolk lining the street. Guards prevented anyone from approaching, but some of the freemen were even daring to shout.
‘What’s that all about?’ he whispered to Ivon, feeling his bare knowledge of Panglian again.
‘They’re protesting the King’s latest raft of taxes,’ Ivon whispered back. ‘Wait until they see what he plans to spend them on! The commoners won’t benefit much from a war, but it’ll keep his nobles and the rich merchant houses happy.’
‘Merchants?’
‘Oh yes… Somebody has to provide supplies for an invading army. The merchants will be only too happy to take the King’s coin.’
‘And then the King recompenses the nobles he’s taxed after taking Vorstlund, by giving them new lands. Keeps the knights and lords in check, which ensures the common folk don’t make any trouble.’
‘You understand perfectly,’ purred Ivon. ‘Not for nothing are you a prince’s son! But this will be only the beginning – our pending war with the Vorstlendings is but one exchange of Jedrez pieces, as it were.’
Wolmar felt the sweat pouring down his back in the high summer heat. He noticed the colour had returned to Ivon’s face. It was drawing towards Gildmonath – or Aotus as they called it down south – and he could smell the stink of townsfolk as they clogged the meaner mudcaked streets leading off the Way of Kings. The white stuccoed buildings reflected the scorching sun with a blinding glare.
‘What about the Thalamians? Do they know about your plans?’
‘The King of Thalamy is proving… most amenable,’ replied Ivon. ‘He’ll agree to the invasion of Vorstlund, have no fear of that. The lovely Isolte is our point of contact there – having her in Sir Hugon’s bed will also help us to keep the Purple Garter on side once the thing is done.’
‘Well you’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?’ said Wolmar.
‘One does try,’ replied Ivon smugly.
They were drawing towards Trader’s Circle. The main public arena of Rima, of a size with Regus Square, it was crammed with market stalls festooned with brightly coloured awnings and street hawkers loudly proclaiming their wares.
‘And what about… the stones?’ Wolmar asked, keeping his voice low. Even now he hoped to fish some vital information from the Margrave, something he could take back to his King in Northalde. Should he ever chance to escape.
‘Oh ho!’ said the Margrave, smiling thinly. ‘So that’s what you’re after! You let me worry about such things, Wolmar, they are not to be trifled wit
h by the unversed… What think you of our splendid city? Is it not a proud testament to the Chivalrous King’s legacy?’
‘I thought King Vasirius was humble, as befits a true knight,’ Wolmar shot back, irritated at being caught out. ‘Hard to believe a city could become so splendid in such a short space of time.’
Ivon chuckled. ‘Ah, so that’s your line of attack!’ he said. ‘Well, yes, Strongholm is the more ancient capital of the two… But not the more ancient city, I’m afraid.’
Wolmar looked at him quizzically.
‘Rima was expanded by Vasirius into its present magnificent form, but it existed long before him, and Strongholm for that matter. It was founded by the Ancient Thalamians as a base for their Iron Legions, after they conquered Upper Vallia.’
‘Upper Vallia?’
‘The name given to what are now the northern provinces of Pangonia. From there the Thalamians launched their next campaign, conquering Lower Vallia to the south. After that it was only a matter of time before they took Occitania, which today comprises the western margravates.’
‘Yes, yes, and so three kingdoms became one,’ said Wolmar impatiently. ‘It was the same with Northalde, and all the rest of the Free Kingdoms – go back five hundred years and most of them were fragmented just like Vorstlund.’
‘Indeed, my sweet prince, but I think you are missing the point,’ said Ivon. ‘So three petty kingdoms become united under the Imperial Banner of Ancient Thalamy, only to fall again to petty squabbling after the collapse of that empire… A few centuries pass, and eventually the three kingdoms become one again, this time under the Ruling House of Rius and King Lotharion the Unifier. Thus was born the Kingdom of Pangonia. And yet… still we fall short of the Thalamian Empire – we are but one kingdom of six, if you count Vorstlund. And that’s before we even get on to the rest of Urovia, or Sassania for that matter.’
Wolmar glanced sidelong at him. They were in the thick of Trader’s Circle now. The deafening clamour enveloped them as the crescent knights, now mounted on jet black destriers, fell in to either side of the procession.
