The Tale of Krispos

by Harry Turtledove

  When Tanilis came in, Krispos pointed to the bright light that played on the silk. “That victory is yours, Tanilis,” he said. Then he gave her the salute properly reserved for the Emperor alone: “Thou conquerest!” He took her in his arms and kissed her.

  He’d intended nothing more than that, but she returned the kiss with a desperate intensity unlike anything he’d known from her before. She clung to him so tightly that he could feel her heartbeat through her robe and his. She would not let him go. Before long, all his continent intentions, all his promises to control himself and his body, were swept away in a tide of furious excitement that seemed as hot and fiery as Pliskavos’ flaming wall. Still clutching each other, he and Tanilis tumbled to the cot, careless of whether it broke beneath them, as it nearly did.

  “Quickly, oh, quickly,” she urged him, not that he needed much urging. The cool, practiced competence she usually brought to bed was gone now, leaving only desire. When she arched her back beneath him and quivered at the final instant, she cried out his name again and again. He scarcely heard her. A moment later, he, too, cried out, wordlessly, as he spent himself.

  The world apart from their still-joined bodies returned to him little by little. He leaned up on his elbows, or began to, but Tanilis’ arms tightened round his back. “Don’t leave me,” she said. “Don’t go. Don’t ever go.”

  Her eyes, scant inches from his own, were huge and staring. He wondered if she was truly looking at him. The last time—the only time—he’d seen eyes so wide was when Gnatios met the executioner. He shook his head; the comparison disturbed him. “What’s wrong?” He stroked her cheek.

  She did not respond directly. “I wish we could do it again, right now, one last time,” she said.

  “Again?” Krispos had to laugh. “After that, Tanilis, I’m not sure I could do it again in a week, let alone right now.” Then he frowned as he listened again in his own mind to all of what she’d said. “What do you mean, one last time?”

  Now she shoved him away from her. “Too late,” she whispered. “Oh, too late for everything.”

  Once more Krispos hardly heard her. This time, though, it was not because of passion but rather pain. Agony such as he had never known filled every crevice of his body. Again he thought of the burning walls of Pliskavos. Now that fire seemed to blaze within his bones, to be consuming him from the inside out. He tried to scream, but his throat was on fire, too, and no sound came forth.

  A new voice echoed in the tiny corner of his mind not given over to torment: “Little man, thinkest thou to thwart me? Thinkest thou thy fribbling futile mages suffice to save what I would slay? Aye, they cost me effort, but with effort cometh reward. Learn of my might as thou diest, and despair.”

  Tanilis must have heard that cold, hateful voice, too, for she said, “No, Harvas, you may not have him.” Her tone now was as calm and matter-of-fact as if the wizard were in the tent with them.

  Krispos felt a tiny fragment of his anguish ease as Harvas shifted his regard to Tanilis. “Be silent, naked slut, lest I deal with thee next.”

  “Deal with me if you can, Harvas.” Tanilis’ chin went up in defiance. “I say you may not have this man. This I have foreseen.”

  “Damnation to thy foreseeing, and to thee,” Harvas returned. “Since thou’dst know the wretch’s body, know what it suffereth now, as well.”

  Tanilis gasped. With a great effort of will, Krispos turned his eyes toward her. She was biting her lip to keep from crying out. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. But she would not yield. “Do your worst to me,” she told Harvas. “It cannot be a tithe of the harm Krispos and I worked against your wicked scheme this day.”

  Harvas screamed then, so loudly that for a moment Krispos wondered why no guardsmen burst in to see who was slaying whom. But the scream sounded only in his mind, and in Tanilis’. More torment lifted from him. Tanilis said, “Here, Harvas. As you give, so shall you get. Let me be a mirror, to reflect your gifts. This is what I feel from you now.”

  Harvas screamed again, but in an altogether different way. He was used to inflicting pain, not to receiving it. Krispos’ anguish went away. He thought Tanilis had forced the wizard to yield, simply by making him experience what he was used to handing out. But when Krispos glanced over at her, he saw her fine features were still death-pale and twisted in torment. Her struggle with Harvas was not yet done.

  Krispos drew in a long, miraculously pain-free breath. He opened his mouth to shout for more wizards to come to Tanilis’ rescue. No sound emerged. Despite everything Tanilis was doing to him—everything he was doing to himself—Harvas still had the strength to enjoin silence on Krispos. And Tanilis agreed. “This is between the two of us now, Krispos.” She returned her attention to her foe. “Here, Harvas: This is what I felt when I learned you had slain my son. You should know all your gifts in full.”

  Harvas howled like a wolf with its leg crushed in the jaws of a trap. But he was trapper as well as victim. He had endured a great deal in his sorcerously prolonged span of days. Though Tanilis wounded him as he had never been wounded before, he did not release her from agony he, too, felt. If he could bear it longer than she, victory would in the end be his. Krispos caught an echo of what he whispered, longingly, again and again to Tanilis: “Die. Oh, die.”

  “When I do, may you go with me,” she answered. “I will rise to Phos’ light while you spend eternity in the ice of your master Skotos.”

  “I usher in my master’s dominion to the world. Thy Phos hath failed; only fools feel it not. And thou hast not the power to drag me into death with thee. See now!”

  Tanilis whimpered on the cot beside Krispos. Her hand reached out and clutched his forearm. Her nails bit into his flesh, deep enough to draw blood. Then all at once that desperate grip went slack. Her eyes rolled up; her chest no longer rose and fell with breath. Krispos knew she was dead.

  While the link with Harvas held, he heard in his mind the beginning of a frightened wail. But the link was abruptly cut, clean as a cord sword-severed. Had Tanilis succeeded in taking the evil wizard down to death with her? If not, she had to have left him hurt and weakened. But the price she’d paid—

  Krispos bent down to brush his lips against those that had so recently bruised his. Now they did not respond. “May you be avenged,” he said softly.

  A new and bitter thought crossed his mind: he wondered if she’d foreseen her own doom when she set out from Opsikion to join the imperial army. Being who and what she was, she must have. Her behavior argued for it—she’d acted like someone who knew she had very little time. But she’d come all the same, heedless of her safety. Krispos shook his head in wonder and renewed grief.

  He heard rapid footsteps outside, footsteps that came to a sudden stop in front of the imperial tent. “What do you want, wizard?” a Haloga guardsman demanded.

  “I must see his Majesty,” Zaidas answered. His young, light voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.

  “You must, eh?” The guardsman did not sound impressed. “What you must do, young sir, is wait.”

  “But—”

  “Wait,” the guard said implacably. He raised his voice, pitching it so Krispos would notice it inside the tent. “Majesty, a wizard out here would have speech with you.” The guard did not poke his head right into the tent now, not after Tanilis had gone in. Yes, he had his own ideas about what was going on in there. Krispos wished he was right.

  Wishing did as much good as usual, no more and no less. Krispos slowly got to his feet. “I’ll be with you soon,” he called to the guard and Zaidas. He put on his robe, then covered Tanilis’ body with hers. He straightened. No help for it now. “Let the wizard come in.”

  Zaidas started to fall to his knees to prostrate himself before Krispos but broke off the ritual gesture when he saw Tanilis lying dead on the cot. Her eyes were still open, staring up at nothing.

  “Oh, no,” Zaidas whispered. He sketched the sun-sign over his heart. Then he looked at Tanilis
again, this time not in shocked surprise but with the trained eye of a mage. He turned to Krispos. “Harvas’ work,” he said without hesitation or doubt.

  “Yes.” Krispos’ voice was flat and empty.

  Lines of grief etched Zaidas’ face; in that moment, Krispos saw what the young man would look like when he was fifty. “I sensed the danger,” Zaidas said, “but only the edges of it, and not soon enough, I see. Would I had been the one to lay down life for you, Majesty, not the lady.”

  “Would that no one ever needed to lay down life for me,” Krispos said as flatly as before.

  “Oh, aye, Your Majesty, aye,” Zaidas stammered. “But the lady Tanilis, she was—she was—something, someone special.” He scowled in frustration at the inadequacy of his words. Krispos remembered how Zaidas had hung on everything Tanilis said when the wizards gathered together, remembered the worshipful look in the younger man’s eye. He’d loved her, or been infatuated with her—at his age, the difference was hard to know. Krispos remembered that, too, from Opsikion.

  Love or infatuation, Zaidas had spoken only the truth. “Someone special? She was indeed,” Krispos said. Harvas had cost him so many who were dear to him: his sister Evdokia, his brother-in-law, his nieces, Mavros, Trokoundos, now Tanilis. But Tanilis had hit back, hit back harder than Harvas could have expected. How hard? Now Krispos’ voice held urgency. “Zaidas, see what you can sense of Harvas for me.”

  “Of his plans, do you mean, Your Majesty?” the young mage asked in some alarm. “I could not probe deeply without his detecting me; probing at all is no small risk—”

  “Not his plans,” Krispos said quickly. “Just see if he’s there and active inside Pliskavos.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty; I can do that safely enough, I think,” Zaidas said. “As you’ve seen, even the subtlest screening techniques leave signs of their presence, the more so if they screen a presence as powerful as Harvas’. Let me think. We bless thee, Phos, lord with the—”

  Zaidas’ voice grew dreamy and far away as he repeated Phos’ creed to focus his concentration and slide into a trance, much as a healer-priest might have done. But instead of laying hands on a wounded man, Zaidas turned toward Pliskavos. His eyes were wide and unblinking and seemed sightless, but Krispos knew they sensed more than any normal man’s.

  After a couple of minutes of turning ever so slightly this way and that, as if he were a hunting dog unsure of a scent, Zaidas slowly came back to himself. He still looked like a puzzled hound, though, as he said, “Your Majesty, I can’t find him. I feel he ought to be there, but it’s as if he’s not. It’s no screen I’ve ever met before. I don’t know what it is.” He did not enjoy confessing ignorance.

  “By the good god, magical sir, I think I know what it is. It’s Tanilis.” Krispos told Zaidas the whole story of her struggle against Harvas Black-Robe.

  “I think you’re right, Your Majesty,” Zaidas said when he was through. The young mage bowed to the cot on which Tanilis lay as if she were a living queen. “Either she slew Harvas as she herself was slain, or at the very least hurt him so badly that his torch of power is reduced to a guttering ember too small for me even to discern.”

  “Which means all we face in Pliskavos is an army of ferocious Halogai,” Krispos said. He and Zaidas beamed at each other. Next to the prospect of battling Harvas Black-Robe again, any number of berserk, fearless axe-swinging northerners seemed a stroll in the meadow by comparison.

  Chapter XII

  THE WALLS OF PLISKAVOS BURNED ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT. Only when morning came again did the flames begin to subside. Smoke still rose here and there inside the town from the fires the blazing wall had started.

  Two heralds, one a Videssian, the other from Krispos’ force of Haloga guards, approached the wall as closely at its heat would allow. In the imperial speech and the tongue of Halogaland, they called on the northerners inside Pliskavos to yield, “…the more so,” as the Videssian-speaker put it, “since the evil wizard who brought you to this pass can no longer aid you.”

  Krispos held his breath at that, afraid in spite of everything that Harvas had been lying low for reasons of his own and would now reappear with redoubled malice and might. But of Harvas there was no sign. The Halogai did not yield, either. The heralds called out their message again and again, then withdrew to the imperial lines. Pliskavos remained silent, smoky, and enigmatic the whole day long.

  At the officers’ meeting just after sunset, Krispos said, “If the walls have cooled enough by morning, we’ll send men up onto them to see what’s going on in there.”

  “Aye,” Mammianos said. “It’s not like the cursed northerners to keep so quiet so long. They’re up to something we’ll likely regret—unless they’ve all been roasted, but that’s too much to ask for, worse luck.”

  The rest of the generals loudly and profanely agreed with him. Then Bagradas raised his wine cup and said, “Let’s drink to the brave lady Tanilis, who made sure they were the ones who roasted rather than us, and who made Harvas choke on his own bile.”

  “Tanilis!” The officers shouted out her name. Krispos spoke it with the rest of them and drank with them as well. The meeting broke up soon afterward. The soldiers filed out of the imperial tent, leaving him alone.

  He sat down on the edge of the cot. He shook his head. The night before, Tanilis and he had shared the cot first in triumph, then in terror. Now she was dead, and Bagradas’ well-meaning toast did not, could not, begin to do justice to what she’d accomplished. Zaidas understood far more. Krispos wondered how much he understood himself.

  Too much had happened too fast—his emotions were still several jumps behind events. Instead of victorious or full of grief, he mostly felt battered, as if he’d gone through rapids without a boat.

  He drained his cup, then poured another and drained that. Then he set down the jar of wine. Tanilis would have wanted him to stop, he thought: he’d need a clear head come morning. He undressed and lay down where he had lain with Tanilis; the scent of her still clung to the blanket. Tears filled his eyes. He angrily brushed them aside. Tears were no fit monument for Tanilis. Finishing what she’d made possible was. He did his best to sleep.

  “MAJESTY!” A HALOGA GUARD BOOMED. “THERE’S STIRRING INSIDE Pliskavos, Majesty.”

  Krispos woke with a grunt. A guttering lamp gave the tent all the light it had; the sun was not yet up. “I’ll be out soon,” he called. He got out of bed, used the chamber pot, and put on his gilded coat of mail.

  He saw the eastern sky had turned gray. “What’s toward?” he asked the guardsman.

  “That we don’t yet know, Majesty. But through the grates of the portcullises some scouts have spied the warriors within Pliskavos milling about. Come the dawn, we’ll have a better notion of why.”

  “True enough,” Krispos said. “We’d best be ready for the worst, though.” Night or day, a detachment of military musicians remained on duty. Krispos went over to them. “Call the men from their tents and to assembly.” As the martial music rang out, he hurried up to the palisade to see what was going on for himself.

  As the guard had said, no one could tell just what was going on in Pliskavos, but something definitely was. The wooden gates had been burned to ashes when the wall caught fire, but the portcullises’ iron grills survived. Through the grillwork Krispos saw shadowy motion. He could not make out more than that, even as twilight brightened toward dawn.

  Behind him, noise quickly built as the imperial army readied itself for whatever might come. Men called back and forth; underofficers shouted; swords and quivers and armor rattled; horses snorted and complained as troopers tightened girths. Through it all, the musicians kept playing. Their music got louder, too, as more of them came on duty.

  The sun rose. Krispos sketched Phos’ circle over his heart as he murmured the creed. It was also on other men’s lips as they caught the day’s first sight of the chiefest symbol of the good god.

  Mammianos came up to Krispos. He said, “If
they are going to try to break out, Your Majesty, do you want to meet them behind the palisade or before it?”

  “If everything goes well, meeting them behind the palisade would be cheapest,” Krispos mused. “But we’d be stretched all along the line around Pliskavos, and they might well rush their men at one point and smash their way through us.” He rubbed his chin. “I hate to say it, but I think we have to meet them face-to-face. What do you say, Mammianos? I halfway hope you can talk me out of it.”

  The fat general grunted, far from happily. “No, I fear you have the right of it, Your Majesty. I was hoping you could talk me round to the other way, but you see the same dangers I do.” He grunted again. “I’ll pass on the word, then.”

  “Thank you, eminent sir.”

  The musicians’ calls changed from Assembly to Battle Stations. Officers’ orders amplified the music. “No, not behind the rampart, lads. Today we’re going to let them see what they’ll be tangling with if they have the stones for it.”

  Krispos made his own way back through the crowd to the imperial tent. As he’d expected, Progress was saddled and waiting for him. He checked the straps under the saddle for tightness, then swung his left foot into the stirrup. Climbing onto Progress reminded him how Mavros had helped him choose the big bay gelding, and helped haggle the price down, too.

  “One more win, foster brother of mine—one more win and you and your mother are both avenged,” he said softly.

  He rode out through a gap in the palisade and took his place at the center of the imperial army that was rapidly forming up in front of Pliskavos. He thought about sending his heralds up to the town to call once more for the Halogai to surrender, but decided not to. Soon enough the northerners would show what they intended to do.