“Your Majesty,” called out the captain of the royal bodyguards, riding up to his monarch. “We must see you out of here.”
The king looked around him to see his entire force routed; pikemen, musketeers, artillerymen, and cavalry, all trying to save themselves and get away from the barbarian horsemen who were swarming around them. Some of the horsemen might get away, while that possibility didn’t exist for most of the footmen.
The king nodded and followed his bodyguard leader from the field, the rest of the guard following. Before they were out of bowshot two of the bodyguards had been taken from their saddles by arrows, and three more of the guards fell back to take care of the nomads who had followed them.
The king shook with fear and shame as he continued on after his guard captain. He thought he should have stood and died with his army. That was something he was unable to do. Maybe he could raise another army and seek revenge for his soldiers, for General Meciar, who he had last seen laying about himself with his sword, sweeping nomad after nomad from the saddle, before a lance took him from his horse to die on foot.
If only I were a warrior like Meciar, he thought, taking a last look back before they crested a rise and lost sight of the battle. Or was that slaughter? But the king was not a warrior such as the old soldier. People followed him because of his title, but after a defeat like this they might not follow him at all.
Chapter Six
“The King will see you now, Master Trader,” said the chief of protocol, bowing respectfully to a man who his master considered a friend.
Seamus bowed in return, wondering how the man would have treated him if he hadn’t been a childhood friend of the king, but a mere commoner. He and Rory had played as boys in the forests around the city, eventually becoming men in the brothels of the capital. He had even attended dinners at the palace up to the time the king’s youngest son, Connor, had been born, and Agnes, the queen, had died in childbirth. That had changed Rory, and the change had not been a good one. Moody, angry, he still took his responsibilities seriously, but the joy was gone from the man who had been known for his deep laugh and sparkling eyes. The only thing that seemed to soften him were his three sons; Michael, Sean and Connor. Fortunately, the King had not let his anger at his wife dying infect his relationship with his youngest. That could have been a real tragedy.
Seamus walked into the large throne room, the figures across the chamber small in the distance. Before his loss, Rory would meet with friends in a smaller audience chamber, or in one of the intimate dining rooms. Now he insisted that everyone who approach him come across the carpeted distance, as if to remind all that he was the ruler here.
The room was as ornate as any in the ancient palace. Finely woven tapestries draped the walls to either side, while the thick carpet muffled the footfalls of anyone who approached. Pottery and vases from far lands, brought by the trading fleet of the Eirish, sat on pedestals to the sides. The ceiling was painted with martial scenes of the kingdom, at least one featuring the present monarch. More than a score of guards in polished armor stood against the walls, while a pair stood slightly to the rear of the throne, flanking the monarch.
As he drew closer he could see that a high priest was hovering near the king, as if to remind the monarch that there were other powers in the world. Rory looked up at the priest with an expression that combined anger and disgust. Prince Michael, Mickey to all who knew him, sat in a smaller throne next to his father. The thirteen-year-old was there to learn the business of ruling, and the bored expression on the lad’s face showed his opinion of the whole thing. It was a beautiful day outside, and the heart of the young man had to be set on riding forest trails and seeking stags to hunt. Unfortunately for the boy, he was the eldest, the heir, and he had to learn that kinging it was not just all games and fun.
Seamus smiled as he looked at the boy. He had talked with Mickey many times and knew where the boy’s heart lay. He wanted to explore new lands, not become mired in the day to day politics of the court. Too bad for him. He might be allowed to explore after he reached the age of a warrior, but if something happened to the king he would never be able to seek his dream.
Seamus took a knee as he reached the bottom of the steps, bowing his head.
“Oh, get to your feet, Seamus,” said Rory, standing and walking down the steps to clap the master trader on the back as soon as the man was on his feet.
“You seem, different, your Majesty,” said Seamus, looking into the smiling face of his old friend. The twinkle seemed to have returned to his eyes, at least partly.
“You mean I don’t look like I’m ready to kill everyone who catches my eye, don’t you? And you would be right. I was mad at the gods.”
The priest sucked in a breath and looked like he was about to have a seizure. Rory chuckled as he looked back at the cleric. “Father Trevor doesn’t like what I’ve been telling him tonight. Have you, Father?”
“It’s not me that doesn’t like it, your Majesty,” said the priest, looking down at the floor and shaking his head. “It is the gods you will anger, and they are not to be played with.”
“Meaning that they are like petulant children,” said Rory in a loud voice, just short of a yell, his eyes hardening. “They want our worship, but don’t care when their supplicants need aid. Like when my wife died. Or when my soldiers die without the aid of magic to serve them in combat.”
“The gods work in mysterious ways, your Majesty,” said the priest, looking up with a petulant gaze. “It is not for us to understand.”
“Bullshit,” roared the king, immediately turning back to look at his friend, the twinkle in his eyes returned, showing how he had enjoyed that exchange with the priest.
Trevor huffed and walked away, back straight and stiff, obviously put off by the king. More likely than not on his way to tell his masters of the blasphemy of the king.
“Not that I don’t appreciate your visit, my friend,” said Rory, clapping the trader on the arm. “But your request came with an undertone of urgency.”
“It is urgent, your Majesty. Maybe not urgent for our people right now, but if we don’t do something about it, it will become something horrible and deadly to all who dwell on the western continent.”
Seamus told the King what had happened to his trade party on the Sea of Grass, leaving out no details. When he was done, the King stood there shaking his head.
“A horrible tale, Seamus. But that happened a thousand miles from here, across a dozen kingdoms. There is nothing we can do unless help is requested. And even then, I’m reluctant to deploy an army so far from home. And necromancers.” He looked over at the priest and called out. “And would your flock of cowards face these death priests, good Father?”
“I resent the clergy being called cowards, your Majesty, said Trevor, turning and walking back toward the throne. “But I can say with certainty that if such evil appears outside our gates, we will face it and vanquish it.”
“And there is your answer, Seamus,” said Rory with a laugh. “If they show up outside my gates, and their own lives are at risk, then they will fight. And I dare not face such evil without magic of my own.” Again, he looked at the Priest. “Which, if I am given a choice, I will procure myself.”
The priest looked away for a moment, then back with a glare at the King. Seamus wasn’t sure what was going on, but there was obviously some contention between the monarch and his church.
“At the moment I can do nothing, Seamus. If the threat came by sea I might send one of my squadrons to try and route them. But they don’t come by sea, do they?”
Eire was as powerful at sea as on land. They maintained two powerful fleets, northern and southern. The Northern Fleet faced the menace of the sea pirates of the north, while the Southern force kept the trade routes open to the Western Middle Sea and the Eirish colonies on the islands off the coast of the Dark Continent. There were other kingdoms that had naval forces as powerful as one of those fleets, but no one had the strength to go up
against both. They were rarely combined, but when that happened, the fleets of the power that challenge Eire went to the bottom.
“It is the business of the gods of those lands to protect their own from dark invaders,” said Father Trevor. “As it is the business of our gods to protect our lands and people, those who worship them. What care they for foreigners?”
“The people they use, you mean,” said Rory, his face reddening in anger. “Get your sorry face out of my palace, old man. I’ll listen to you again tomorrow, but I’ve had enough of you tonight to sour my guts.”
The priest’s face reddened as well. He mumbled something under his breath that could have been a curse, then turned and stalked off.
“It might not be a good idea to anger the priests, Rory,” he told the king, speaking to him as a friend. “They have much power, not just what they get from the gods, but from the people as well.”
“My people love me, Seamus, and I don’t fear those leaches who control the other leaches above us. There are other sources of magic in the world, Seamus, and I intend to give some of them a chance in my kingdom. Magic users who are not afraid to use their power in service to their king and his people.”
“The priests will hate you for it, my king,” said Seamus, shaking his head, worrying that his friend was making a terrible mistake.
“Hells, the bastards already hate me, my friend,” said Rory with a smile. “Maybe now they’ll hate me enough that they suffer from apoplexy, and I’ll be rid of them. I can always hope.”
“And about this problem from the east?” asked Seamus in a pleading tone.
Rory looked at his friend for a moment, then up into the air. “I will set my councilors to work on sending out requests of passage. The least I can do is send a military mission to observe, so we will know what we face when they reach here, if they do. I have a nobleman on a military mission to the Franks. If they get that far, he will have something to report.”
“I think they will head this way, my king,” said Seamus, a frown weighing down his face. “This is dark magic, and I fear the Scythian people may be no more. And the Bulgars were next.”
“And then the other Slav kingdoms,” said Rory, shaking his head. “And after them the Franks, then the Gauls, and then us. Don’t look so surprised, Seamus. Just because I am not as well travelled as you doesn’t mean I’m uneducated about the world we live in. Hells, I bet you I can name all the countries of the Far East, and probably most of those on the big bastard of a continent to the South. Now what say you we retire to my study and knock back some good whiskey?”
The smile on the kings face stretched it in a way that made the monarch look like a young man again. The king was not old, only in his early forties, but the troubles of the kingdom weighed down a man, and Rory had been letting it get to him more than usual, from what the trader had heard.
The king looked over at his chief of protocol, who had an expression of disapproval on his face, as if he knew what was coming.
“Tell the rest of the supplicants to go away, Brian. I will not be listening to any more of their whining this day. I would spend some time reacquainting myself with my old friend.” He looked up at his son, who was sitting attentive on his seat, listening. “Come along, Mickey. I would have you hear some of our stories, so that you don’t make the same foolish mistakes that we did.”
The boy was out of his seat in an instant, a smile stretching his freckled face. Seamus knew how he felt, a young man with the whole world opening up in front of him. A pox on politics, let the boy listen to the boasts of two aging men who had charted the path for him.
* * *
“The blasphemous bastard,” cursed High Bishop Pallin O’Connor, glaring at Father Trevor, the bearer of the news. “How dare he mock the gods so? By Moloch, he will bring misfortune upon us all.”
The high bishop, the vicar of the Eirish gods on earth, sat at the head of the council table, a goblet of wine near at hand. It was obvious that the bishop had been partaking, his face reddened from the alcohol. Which had the effect of making him not the most reasonable of men.
The council chamber was as ornate as anything in the palace, though not in the same class as the cathedral’s worship chamber. Gold inlays around masterpiece murals decorated walls that no one outside the priesthood would ever see. It seemed like a waste to Trevor, who would have this beauty on display, and not just for the eyes of people who had seen it so often it had just become unnoticed background.
“He is still angry at the gods for the passing of his wife,” explained Trevor, trying to calm his bishop. “He loved her greatly.”
“It was the will of the gods that a healer was not near,” replied Father Sean, a sanctimonious expression on his face.
“Was it the will of the gods that Mother Meghan was dead drunk when Agnes went into labor,” hissed Trevor, pointing a finger at the other priest, feeling his anger rise.
“She was punished for that oversite,” said Sean, knocking Trevor’s hand aside. “And she will face even greater punishment in the afterlife.” Sean looked up at the ceiling with a quick prayer on his lips, then back at the other clergy in the council chamber. “And she left him three fine sons, which was her purpose,” he exclaimed, his face hard. “What more does he want? If he misses the satisfaction of a woman, let him find a whore, or a noblewoman. They’re both the same, aren’t they? Only in it for the money.”
“How would you know, Sean?” asked Trevor with an innocent expression on his face. “I understand you have had your share of whores, but I doubt any noblewomen would have allowed you in their beds.”
“Why you...” roared Sean, his face going white with his anger.
“I will not have this bickering among my priests, in my cathedral,” said the bishop, turning his glare on both men, backing them down from their confrontation.
“Does he really mean to bring wizards back into the kingdom?” asked Mother Kaitlan, eyes narrowing. “Could he really be so shortsighted?”
“I think he is,” said Trevor, shaking his head in sorrow at the shortsightedness of his monarch. “He wants sorcery he can control, and no just that under the righteous control of the higher powers.”
“Man is not meant that kind of power,” said the bishop as his hand slapped hard on the table, his eyes blazing with rage. “We must not allow this king to have his way.”
“What do you suggest, my Lord?” asked Trevor, his face going pale as he thought of what the bishop might order.
“If necessary, he must be removed from his throne.”
And that will only happen if he is dead, thought Trevor. Rory will never step down, and his people will come to his aid against us. They fear us, but not to the point where they will betray that man. “I don’t think his heir will appreciate you killing his father?”
“The sons will not ascend if they’re not around to inherit,” said Sean, his eyes burning cold.
By the gods, no, thought Trevor, starting to shake his head and stopping at the last minute, so that his own feelings would not be read, and his movements restricted. I will not be a party to regicide, and especially not the murder of children. The king must be warned.
“Thank you for your information, Father Trevor,” said the bishop, waving a hand in dismissal. “The inner circle will take it from here. Let us know if there is any more news.”
“Of course, your Excellency,” agreed Trevor, rising from his seat and bowing. “I will bring what I find to you immediately on learning.” Trevor walked from the room, swearing to himself that the bishop would receive no more information from him, while the king would learn everything he knew. It was the least he could do to redress what he was seeing as a criminal conspiracy by his fellow priests. If the king was forced to take some action against the Church, as long as it wasn’t too harsh, he would shed no tears.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, with the rising of the sun, Rory brought Mickey with him to the harbor to watch the Northern fleet come
in to port. They stood on a railing overlooking the water as the great ships and frigates sailed in stately majesty through the harbor entrance one at a time, firing guns in salute to the two forts that overlooked that entrance, white smoke pushing out from the sides. White smoke and the crack of guns answered from the forts.
Rory was proud of his fleet, and the men who crewed it. Not every kingdom could afford such ships, and many sea powers still used the older technology of the last century, before cannon became common. Eireland was a trading power, most of the imports and exports traveling by sea. Gold and silver, gems and spices, flowed into Doblas, the capital. The fleet was a result of those riches, paid for by trade, there to make sure the trade continued to move.
The dockyards, in this, the largest port of the kingdom, were busy, as always. More than fifty traders, from small two masted coasters to huge three mast merchantmen, were tied up at the quays. Longshoremen wrestled with rope and pully to sway bales of furs and skins, wool, boxes of exotic fruits, and the ores of strange metals. The smell of spices permeated the air. Some of the ships were taking on cargo for a voyage out, while others were dispensing their wares to one of the many warehouses that sat close to the water. New vessels were taking shape across the harbor in the shipyard. Other ships sat in frames outside the water, having barnacles scrapes or boards caulked, while one large vessel was being pulled up rollers by sweating men on block and tackle, removed from the harbor so that repairs could be made. One ship sat in the water right off the shipyard, while masts were lifted into place. The shipyard was always a hive of constant activity, replacing ships lost or retired, increasing the size of the merchant fleet.
“They’re damaged,” exclaimed Mickey, pointing at the first ship, the great man-o-war Warrior, which showed the scars of battle on her patched-up sides and improvised forward mast. That ship would be heading to the naval shipyard to be brought back up to full capability.
The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Page 6
