by Duncan Lay
Merren had tried not to confront Archbishop Nott. But after what she had been forced to do to Martil, she knew she had to get it out of her system.
‘Archbishop!’ She stormed into his room, where he was quietly working through a pile of reports.
Nott looked up slowly. ‘Yes, my Queen? What can I do for you?’
Merren waited until he could see what she was doing, then deliberately slammed the door.
‘I see what you are here for then,’ Nott said mildly. ‘I am a little surprised it took you this long.’
‘Did you know?’ she demanded.
Nott rubbed his face and offered her a seat.
‘No,’ he said simply. ‘But if I had, I would still have told you the same thing.’
Merren glared at him. ‘Explain yourself!’
Nott shook his head. ‘I am afraid I cannot, at least not to your satisfaction. I told you I am not skilled in divination. Bishop Gamelon was the last priest I knew who was really able to discern a pattern in the future—and yet look what happened to him. I am being guided, towards a destination I do not know, by a course I do not understand. All I can do is pass on what I have been permitted to know. If you had not slept with Martil, we would not have won Pilleth. We both know that is true. We both did what we had to, to ensure victory. In doing so, we helped save Martil’s life, for the Dragon Sword was growing impatient with him. Soon, it would have begun to draw the life from him. Given that Martil is now the guardian of my granddaughter, that is also something I am grateful for. I did not know you would fall pregnant. But you do need an heir to take up the Dragon Sword. And who better than the son of the latest wielder?’
‘So you’re happy about it?’ Merren growled. ‘Don’t you understand what I had to do? What I must do, now I am carrying this child? I’ve got to marry Sendric, put aside everything I want for the country, hurt two good men—and all because—’
‘And don’t you understand what I have to do?’ Nott leaped to his feet and was in front of her in an instant. Shocked by his transformation from quiet, gentle grandfather to a figure of strength, power blazing from his blue eyes, surprised by the firmness in his grip as he seized her hands, she fell silent.
‘I thought I would be dead by now! I thought I would have found peace! But no, I must give up my granddaughter, I must take on duties I never wanted, that I turned down when I was younger, and stronger. I have been shown a frightening future, where pyramids to Zorva infest the land, where screaming crowds cheer as blood-splattered Fearpriests cut out the hearts of children to glorify their foul god! I don’t want to have to fight, I don’t want to have to tell people to do things that are against their wishes, against their nature! I don’t want to have the responsibility! But it has been given to me and I cannot shirk it! Just like you! I will do whatever my God wants, as you do what you have to for your country. But don’t you ever think that I enjoy it, or take it lightly, or, God forbid, I am happy about it! I understand what you did. I grieve for the position you are in, for what you are forced to do. But we are talking about ensuring a life not just for the child you carry but for every child on this continent, on this world!’
Merren stood there, too shocked to say or do anything, as Nott slowly walked back to his seat, and pulled his pile of papers back towards him.
‘There may be another purpose for that child. Do not seek answers before you are ready,’ Nott said tiredly.
‘What else have you seen?’ Merren whispered.
‘Nothing I can tell you, for fear of having exactly the opposite effect. Zorva tells his agents what to do, when to do it and why. Aroaril gives His people the power to choose. If you want to go and work for the Dark God, all you need to do is follow orders. But here, you can follow your heart. That is something I would not change. Now, if there is nothing further?’
Merren took a deep breath. Part of her still wanted to rage at him, get rid of her frustration, her fear, her self-loathing at what she had done to Martil. But the part of her that had been raised to royal duty saw that Nott was just as trapped as she was. Screaming at him would make her feel better, perhaps, for a moment—but then she would just feel worse afterwards.
‘No, there is nothing more,’ she replied.
Now that preparations were finally under way to return to Norstalos, Gello felt much happier about being in Berellia. Part of that, he supposed, was due to his conversion to Zorva.
Along with his officers, and Cessor and Worick, he had gone to an underground cavern, where an altar to Zorva waited.
‘We are building a traditional pyramid to Zorva, so all can see as the sacrifices are made,’ Onzalez told them. ‘But such things take time. The site we chose had a church to Aroaril. It was demolished, and then the area had to be cleansed of the stink of Aroaril before we could begin. There is still lingering support for Aroaril here, but we are stamping it out. Apparently there is an underground society of priests somewhere. When we find one, we flay them alive and impale them, which is reducing their numbers.’
Prent officiated over the conversions, while Onzalez merely watched his protégé. Although Gello was to sacrifice Lahra, his officers and Cessor and Worick had been told to sacrifice one of their family.
‘The first-born son is traditional, although it can be any child,’ Onzalez said.
The rest of the families were not permitted to witness the rites. Only men could witness the sacred rites of Zorva—women and children were only allowed on top of the bloody altar.
Gello’s officers had agreed readily enough. The power and wealth he had offered them over the years was enough to secure their support for almost anything. Worick seemed willing, as well. But Cessor was blubbering as his youngest daughter wailed in fear.
‘Can’t someone shut the little bitch up?’ Gello muttered to Onzalez. ‘I can’t hear what is going on!’
‘Zorva loves to hear screams,’ Onzalez assured him.
The children had been first; Cessor wept uncontrollably and Prent had to grip the ceremonial dagger with him to strike the fatal blow. Lahra was last and she had screeched and begged for mercy, offered to do anything that any man in the packed cavern wanted in exchange for her life.
Gello had hesitated, strangely reminded of his mother’s last moments: He had stood above her prone body and had stilled her annoying voice forever. He had been almost lost in the memory, and Prent had had to nudge him, while Lahra screamed and begged. Then Gello brought the knife down, ending her cries forever, as well as any remaining shred of guilt.
The feeling that surged through him when he offered Lahra’s heart and his soul to Zorva, had left him shaken. His memories of running from the throne room in tears, of fleeing Pilleth and his victorious cousin, which had seemed so vivid, now seemed remote. For years he had been able to conjure up every moment, every emotion from his throne room humiliation. Now it seemed as if it had happened to another man. Which, of course, it had.
Once Gello and his men were all converted, they found themselves invited more and more into the King’s confidence—and especially into the confidence of Onzalez, who was clearly the real power here. Well, not all of them. Fat Cessor kept pleading sickness, and refusing to turn up. Gello was beginning to think the fool would be better off dead. He was certainly useless.
After all, the conversion meant they were even permitted to watch the warriors of Tenoch exercising on the plains outside the city. That was exceedingly interesting. Rather than fighting in tight ranks, they fought man to man, using speed and agility to counter their lack of shields and light armour.
Gello had been fascinated with their slingers, men capable of sending a fist-sized stone crashing into a target seventy paces away with unerring accuracy. They had none of the range of the longbow or crossbow but they could be devastating at close range. As to the rest of the Tenoch armoury, he had been amazed to discover how sharp the black rock, which Itlan called obsidian, seemed to be—either as a spear head or embedded into a wooden club to make their strange clu
b-axes. These had all the fearsome impact of an axe, with the speed of a sword. Despite himself, he was impressed.
But, most of all, he could feel a new power inside himself. Aroaril had thwarted him at Pilleth but now he would crush his cousin once and for all. After that, he would help the Berellians and their Tenoch allies crush every other country on the continent. And after that, he would ensure he was the supreme ruler of them all. The Dragon Sword and his shame would be wiped away in a wave of blood, while screaming crowds chanted his name.
As Bishop Milly inspected the group of prospective priests and priestesses, she was hard-pressed to keep a smile from her face when she saw the large one at the end, whose robe appeared to be too short in both the arm and leg.
‘Unusual uniform you are wearing there, Sergeant Kesbury,’ she said softly.
‘I have had my fill of fighting. I have seen too much and I want to change my life,’ he replied quietly.
Milly considered him for a long moment. ‘You can begin the process. Who am I to say if Aroaril has not called you up into His service? But I can foresee problems. You have talents that may be required elsewhere. What if Captain Martil needs you, or the Queen?’
‘I have spoken to Captain Martil. He will not call on me unless he has no choice,’ Kesbury said confidently.
‘You are Ralloran. Would you not be happier ministering to your own people? Particularly given what has happened here, the way in which Gello has tried to paint you as monsters?’
Kesbury stared down at her defiantly. ‘There is nothing for me in Rallora. And if I cannot win over a Norstaline village, then I do not deserve to be a priest.’
Milly smiled at his answer.
‘An excellent reply. Well, let’s see if you can be a warrior for Aroaril.’
Father Saltek had been ministering to an ever-decreasing flock for months now. His worst fears, and the predictions of Earl Byrez, had come true. The Fearpriests ruled in Berellia now and the number of people who would admit to worshipping Aroaril was being whittled away every day—both through fear and the efforts of the Fearpriests.
Many Berellian towns and villages were beautiful to look at. Stone houses overlooking cobbled streets and small squares, ornate churches and impressive castles. Civic pride meant the streets were clean, the fields rich and well tended. But behind the gorgeous façade, behind the smiles of the men and women, evil was festering.
He was still holding services, being smuggled from house to house by loyal worshippers, men and women determined not to fall under the sway of the darkness pervading their country. Although it was getting harder. Luckily he was still being blessed by Aroaril, which had allowed him to escape his pursuers three times now. But they had powers of their own, and it could not be long until they caught up with him. While he had breath, he was prepared to worship, which was why he agreed to go to a small house in the rich quarter of the city—against his better judgement—after a desperate plea from a woman he had known for years, a stallholder from the city’s markets.
As he walked through the door, he almost ran back out again—the smell of fear was ripe in the small lounge room. A middle-aged woman and her two teenage daughters greeted him by falling to their knees and grabbing his hands. But strangest of all was the fat man in the big chair by the fireplace, who sat silently weeping and toying with a long dagger.
‘What is going on here?’ Saltek demanded, preparing to call on Aroaril to hold these people while he ran for safety.
‘Father, I am the Countess Cessor, these are my daughters Ladria and Yvonne. My husband is the Count Cessor; we are all fugitives from Norstalos. But we all love Aroaril. You must help us!’
‘What about your husband?’ Saltek said harshly.
The man named as Count Cessor raised his tear-streaked face. ‘They made me kill my daughter! They made me worship Zorva! I have to atone!’ he wailed.
Saltek waved at him furiously. ‘Keep your voice down! Do you want us all to die?’
‘I want to die,’ Cessor confirmed, ‘but I want you to save my family—and I have an important message for you in return.’
Saltek sighed. He might have wished he had never come but he could sense there was a desperate need here. ‘There can be no bargaining. Tell me all, so I can judge how I may best help your family.’
‘But—’ Countess Cessor began.
‘But nothing! It is highly likely I am the last priest of Aroaril left in Berellia! I have a responsibility not just to you but to all those who still wish to keep His light flickering in this pit of darkness!’ They fell silent and he sighed.
‘Start at the beginning,’ Saltek suggested gently. ‘Why don’t we sit down?’
It was a long tale, and one that made Saltek shudder. But the part where Cessor described how an army of Zorva was preparing to march on Norstalos, then see that country converted to worship of the Dark God, the first step in a campaign to take over the entire continent, made his skin crawl.
‘The Fearpriest, Onzalez, has summoned men from a country called Tenoch, thousands of them. Norstalos does not stand a chance. King Gello does not care what happens to the people, he just wants his throne back. He has offered a chunk of southern Norstalos to Markuz, and is happy to set these monsters from Tenoch loose in the west—his old Dukedom! And once Norstalos has fallen, no other country could hope to stand against them,’ Cessor explained. ‘I want you to contact Norstalos, to smuggle my family back across the border, so they can take a warning to Queen Merren. That information might just save their lives.’
‘And you?’
Cessor offered him the ghost of a smile and twirled the dagger in his hands. ‘I shall open my veins and beg forgiveness of my daughter when I meet her,’ he sighed.
Saltek controlled the urge to offer him a comforting hand. ‘You do know that will not save your soul? That is pledged to Zorva, for now and ever,’ he said quietly.
Cessor looked at him with liquid eyes. ‘I do not care. I deserve any punishment I receive.’
‘Would it not be better then, to take another with you? The Fearpriest, Onzalez? You have access to him, he trusts you now. Kill him and you will do more for Aroaril than simply ending your life.’
Cessor sighed gustily. ‘I am old, fat and weak. I am also a coward. I would fail, they would take me and I would tell them all about my family, about my warning—and about you. I cannot let that happen. Better that I die now.’
Saltek looked at him carefully. ‘Then Aroaril have mercy on you.’
Cessor embraced his weeping wife and daughters, then watched as Saltek led them out the door and into the night. It was strange, but all his fear was gone now. He rolled his sleeves back, then slit each arm from wrist to elbow. He let the dagger fall to the floor where his lifeblood was pooling and leaned back in the chair. He had been a fool, and worse than a fool, he knew. And even this action was not going to guarantee the survival of Norstalos or his family. But it was the only thing he could do. He hoped his torment would be immense—if that meant his daughter would find peace.
Saltek led the three women deeper into the night. He would split them up, hide them with several different families that he trusted. That part was easy enough. But contacting Norstalos—that would be difficult indeed. Using Aroaril’s power would alert the Fearpriests. They would close down the capital, possibly impose a curfew, certainly redouble their efforts to seize him. But it had to be done. The survival of more than one country depended on it.
‘What is the matter?’ Conal asked, as Martil arrived to collect Karia.
Martil thought about brushing him off, but the Militia Commander was too canny a man to fool. Sometimes Martil almost preferred him as a drunken old fool. But he needed to talk to someone, and Conal was the only one who knew how he felt about Merren and who might offer some sympathy and advice. He certainly wasn’t going to get that from Barrett.
‘Merren is to marry Count Sendric,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
‘What I said. Merr
en is marrying Count Sendric,’ Martil repeated.
Conal shook his head. ‘But why?’
‘Says he’s the only noble left in the country, and the people want to know there is going to be a succession. She says the people are still frightened, and want reassurance.’
‘Aye, well, she has a point there. But Sendric! Aroaril’s beard, the man’s old enough to be her father!’
‘Well, it’s not like she has much of a choice, is it?’ Louise bustled over, from where she had been watching the younger children. Karia and Louise’s eldest daughter, a girl called Sarah, were playing with dolls in another room. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘you’ll still be the Queen’s Champion. And you know what the sagas all say about that!’
‘I don’t care what the bloody sagas say!’ Martil growled.
‘You might, if they were coming true around you,’ Louise pointed out.
‘The last thing I need is for my life to resemble a saga!’ Martil snorted. ‘Anyway, she told me she doesn’t have any feelings for me. Now, where’s Karia?’
‘Through there,’ Louise said, and pointed.
She and Conal exchanged glances as Martil stomped off, picked up Karia and stalked away.
‘You think there is more to this than Martil was saying?’ Conal asked.
‘You know there is!’ Louise scoffed. ‘The Queen is too clever a woman to do something like this without a good reason. And she has to be careful of gossip. Most of Norstalos has also read those sagas about queens and their champions.’
‘Do we tell Martil that?’
‘Leave him be,’ Louise advised. ‘It will work out over time. I don’t know if they are even right for each other.’
‘And of course you would be the one to know, eh?’ Conal grinned.
‘Get away with you! I mean it! The Queen isn’t the only one who has to worry about gossip!’
Conal, still smiling, allowed himself to be pushed out the door.
