by Paul Kearney
“Count the guns!” she cried, heedless of the shrill crack in her voice.
“That’s nineteen now,” one of the older nobles asserted. Hardio of Pontifidad, she remembered. A royalist. His face was torn between hope and dismay.
The echoing rumble of the explosions at last died away, but the crowds were still cheering manically. Twenty-eight guns. The salute for a reigning king. What in the world was going on?
“Maybe it’s for the new regent,” someone said, but Hardio shook his head.
“That’d be twenty-two guns.”
“Perhaps he’s dead,” one of the dullards suggested. “They always fire a salute on the death of a king.”
“God forbid,” Hardio rasped, but most of the men present looked relieved. It was Jemilla who spoke, her voice a lash of scorn.
“Don’t be a fool. You hear the crowds? You think they’d be cheering the death of the King?” It was slipping away—she could feel it. Somehow Golophin and Isolla had stymied her. But how?
The question was soon answered. There was a deafening blare of horns outside and the clatter of many horses. A Royal fanfare was blown over and over. Beyond the great double doors of the refectory they could hear the tramp of feet marching in step. Then a sonorous boom as someone struck the doors from the outside.
“Open in the name of the King!”
A group of timorous retainers belonging to Urbino’s household stood there, unsure. They looked to their lord for orders but he seemed lost in shock. It was Jemilla who rapped out, “Open the damn doors then!”
They did so. Those inside the hall stood up as one, scraping back their chairs on the old stone. Beyond the doors were two long files of Hebrian arquebusiers dressed in the rich blue of Royal livery. Banner-bearers stood with the Hibrusid gonfalons a silk shimmer above their heads. And at the head of them all, a tall figure in black half-armour, his face hidden by a closed helm upon which the Hebrian crown gleamed in a spangle of gems and gold.
Wordlessly, the files of arquebusiers entered the room and lined the walls. Their match was lit and soon filled the chamber with the acrid reek of gunpowder. The solitary figure in the closed helm entered last, the banner-bearers closing the doors behind him. The assembled nobles stood as though turned to stone, until a hard voice snapped, “Kneel before your King.”
And the figure in black unhelmed.
The aristocracy of Hebrion stared, gaped, and then did as they were bidden. The figure in the black armour was without a doubt Abeleyn IV, King of Hebrion and Imerdon.
He was taller than they remembered, and he looked old enough to be the father of the young man they had once known. No trace of the boy-king remained. His eyes were like two glitters of black frost as he surveyed the kneeling throng. Jemilla remained in her seat by the fire, too paralysed to move, but he did not even glance at her. The chamber stank of fear as much as the burning match. He could have them all shot, here and now, and no-one would be able to lift a finger.
Hardio and a few others who had been against the regency from the first were beaming. “Give you joy of your recovery, sire,” the old nobleman said. “This is a glad day for the kingdom.”
The severity on the seamed face of the King lifted somewhat: they glimpsed the youth of a few months past. “My thanks, Hardio. Noble cousins, you may rise.”
A collective sigh, lost in the noise of the aristocrats getting off their knees. They were to live, then.
“Now,” the King went on quietly, “I believe you were gathered here to discuss matters of import that concern my realm.” No-one missed the easy emphasis on the my, the momentary departure from the Royal we.
“We will—if you do not object—take our place at the head of this august gathering.”
“By—by all means, sire,” Urbino stammered. “And may I also congratulate you on the regaining of your health and faculties.”
Abeleyn took the empty throne which headed the long table. His gait was odd: he walked on legs which seemed too long for him, rolling slightly like a sailor on the deck of a pitching ship.
“I was not aware our faculties had ever been lost, Urbino,” he said, and the coldness in his voice chilled the room. The nobles were once again aware of the lines of armed soldiers at their backs.
“But your concern is noted,” the King continued. “It shall not be forgotten.” And here Abeleyn’s eyes swept the room, coming to rest at last on Jemilla.
“We trust we see you well, lady.”
It took a second for her to find her voice. “Very well, my lord.”
“Excellent. But you should not be worrying yourself with the problems of state in your condition. You have our leave to go.”
There was no choice for her, of course. She curtsied clumsily, and then left the room. The doors boomed behind her, shutting her away from her ambitions and dreams. Jemilla kept her chin tilted high, oblivious to the roaring jubilation of the crowds outside, the grinning soldiers. Not until she had reached the privacy of her own apartments did she let the tears and the fury run unchecked.
“A very satisfactory state of affairs,” Himerius, High Pontiff of the Ramusian Kingdoms of the West, said.
It was a day of brilliant sunshine which blazed off the snow-covered Narian Hills all around and glittered in blinding facets upon the peaks of the Cimbric Mountains to the east. Himerius stood foursquare against the bitter wind which billowed down from those grim heights, and when he exhaled his breath was a white smoke shredded instantly away. Behind him, a group of monks in Inceptine black huddled within their habits and discreetly rubbed their hands together within voluminous sleeves in a futile effort to keep the blood in their fingers warm.
“Indeed, your Holiness,” bluff, florid-cheeked Betanza said. “It could not have gone more smoothly. As we speak, Regent Marat is preparing an expeditionary force of some eight thousand men. They should be here in fifteen days, if the weather holds.”
“The couriers have gone out to Alstadt?”
“They went yesterday, under escort of a column of Knights. I would estimate that within three months we will have a fortified garrison in the Torrin Gap, ready to repel any Merduk reconnaissance or to serve as a stageing post for further endeavours.”
“And what news from Vol Ephrir?”
“King Cadamost will accept a garrison on the Astaran border, but it must not be of Almarkan nationals. Knights Militant only—it is a question of national pride, you understand. Unfortunately, we do not currently have any Knights to spare.”
“Almarkan troops are now the servants of the Church as much as the Knights Militant. If it will ease Perigraine’s conscience the Almarkans can be clad in the livery of the Knights, but we must install our troops in southern Perigraine. Is that clear, Betanza?”
“Perfectly, Holiness. I shall see to it at once.”
“Cadamost shall be made an honourary presbyter, of course. It is the least I can do. He is a faithful son of the Church, truly. But he cannot afford to think of Perigraine alone at a time like this. We must present a united front against the heretics. If Skarp-Hethin of Finnmark is willing to accept Almarkan garrisons, then Cadamost has no reason not to do likewise.”
“Yes of course, your Holiness. It is merely a question of prestige. Skarp-Hethin is a prince, and his principality has traditionally been closely allied with Almark. But Perigraine is a sovereign state. Some of the diplomatic niceties must be observed.”
“Yes, yes. I am not a child, Betanza. Just get it done. I care not what hoops you have to jump through, but we must have the forces of the Church garrisoned throughout those kingdoms which acknowledge her spiritual supremacy. This is a time of crisis. I will not have the debacle of Hebrion repeated. We lost an entire kingdom to the heretics there because we had insufficient forces on the ground. That must never happen again.”
“Yes, Holiness.”
“If we are to strike back at the heretics then it can only be east through the Torrin Gap, and south into East Astarac . . . Still no word from Fi
mbria?”
“No, Holiness. Though rumour has it that the Fimbrian army sent east by the Electors was destroyed along with the Ormann Dyke garrison at the Battle of the North More.”
“Rumour? We base our policy on rumours now?”
“It is difficult to obtain reliable information on the eastern war, Holiness. I have also heard that there has been a great battle close to the gates of Torunn itself, but of its outcome we have no word.”
“Have we no reliable sources in Torunn?”
“We have, yes, but with the Torunnan capital virtually under siege it is a slow business getting their intelligence this far.”
Himerius said nothing. His face was drawn and haggard in the harsh sunlight, but the eyes within it were bright as gledes. Over the past days he had displayed an astonishing reservoir of energy for a man of his years, working far into every night with shifts of scribes and scholars and Almarkan military officers. Privately, Betanza wondered how long he could keep it up. The Ramusian Church—or this version of it, at any rate—had in a space of weeks been transformed into a great empire which now encompassed not only Almark, but Finnmark, Perigraine and half a dozen other minor principalities and duckedoms also. Cadamost of Perigraine, appalled by the carnage in the heretical states of Hebrion, Astarac and Torunna, had hastened to place his own kingdom under the protective wing of Charibon. A loyal son of the Church indeed, Betanza thought, but one without any balls to speak of.
Betanza himself regarded this sudden transformation of the Church with mixed feelings. He was Vicar-General of the Inceptine Order, the second most powerful figure in the Church hierarchy, but he found himself wondering about the accumulation of power which was taking place here. If Torunn had become the focuss of resistance to the Merduk invasions, then Charibon was now the centre of a huge new power bloc which stretched from the Malvennor Mountains in the west to the Cimbrics in the east, and even extended as far north as the Sultanate of Hardukh, not far from the foothills of the Northern Jafrar. Only Fimbria, in her heyday, had ever governed a tract of land so large, and the men who had had this awesome responsibility thrust so precipitately upon their shoulders were clerics, priests with no experience in governance. It made him uneasy. It also seemed not quite right to him that the head of the Ramusian faith in Normannia should spend twenty hours a day dictating orders for the levying of troops and the movement of armies. He had not joined the Church to become a general; he had done his soldiering in the lay world and wanted no more of it.
He looked up and out to where the savage peaks of the Cimbric Mountains brooded, white and indomitable. The snow was blowing in great streaks and banners from their summits, as though the mountains were smoking. The world was on fire; the world he had known as a boy and a young man tottered on the brink of dissolution. If only Aekir had not fallen, he found himself thinking. If only Macrobius had not been lost.
Such thinking was absurd, of course, and dangerous. They all had to make the best of it. But why did he feel so afraid, so apprehensive of the future? Perhaps it was the change in Himerius. The Pontiff had always been a proud, vain man, capable of ruthless intrigue. But now it seemed that the ambition had left the faith behind. The man never prayed any more. Could that be right, in the head of the Church? And that odd light in his eyes occasionally, at night. It seemed otherworldly. Unsettling.
I am tyred, Betanza thought. I am tyred, and I am older than I think I am. Why not step down and walk the cloisters, contemplate the world beyond this one, and the God Who created it? It is what I donned this habit to do, after all.
But he knew the answer even as he asked the question. He would not stand down because he was afraid of whom Himerius might find to replace him. Already half the Church hierarchy had been reshuffled—Escriban, Prelate of Perigraine, was gone already. He had too independent a mind to sit easily with the New Order. Himerius had installed Pieter Goneril in his place, a nonentity who would do exactly as he was told. And Presbyter Quirion of the Knights Militant, as good a man as ever lifted a sword in the service of the Church, and a personal friend—he was gone too, rotting in some little Almarkan border town. He had lost Hebrion to King Abeleyn, and over a thousand Knights besides. That could not be forgiven.
Charibon has become a Royal court, Betanza thought. We are nothing more than errand-runners for its black-clad monarch. And our faith? What has happened to it?
He found it hard to admit to himself what nagged at him most, and caused him to wake up sweating in the middle of the cold nights. An old scrap of wandering prophecy dreamt up by a madman, but a madman who was nevertheless one of the founding fathers of the Church.
And the Beast shall come upon the earth in the days of the Second Empire of the world. And he shall rise up out of the west, the light in his eyes terrible to behold. With him shall come the Age of the Wolf, when brother will slay brother. And all men shall fall down and worship him.
Betanza had never been much of a reader before he set aside his ducal robes and donned the black habit. In fact, strictly speaking, he had been illiterate. But he had learnt his letters in his years with the Church, and now he found reading to be an occupation he loved. He had shelves of books in his chambers, amongst them certain tomes which, were they found in the possession of a novice, might just consign that novice to the pyre. He had begun collecting them after the strange murder of Commodius the Chief Librarian in the bowels of the great Library of Saint Garaso. There was a chill in his gut as he recalled the lines from The Book of Honourius. A madman’s ravings or true prescience? No-one could say. And why had Commodius been murdered? Again, no-one knew. His investigations had led nowhere. The two monks who were the prime suspects had disappeared into the night. Oddly, Himerius had seemed unconcerned, more preoccupied with sealing off the catacombs below the library than with tracking down the murderers.
Lord God, it was cold! Would spring never come? What a terrible year.
Himerius had taken to roving the battlements of the cathedral trailed by a gaggle of scribes and subordinates. It helped him think, he said. That was why they were up here now, insects scurrying along the backbone of a slumbering stone giant, Charibon spread out below them like a toy city. The Sea of Tor was still frozen about its margins, and Betanza could see crowds of the local people out fishing on the ice. The winter had been hard on them, and harder still was the billeting in their homes of troops. Lines of soldiers marched into Charibon every day, it seemed. The monastery-city was becoming an armed camp.
Himerius strolled along the battlements dictating to his scribes. Betanza did not move, and only one cleric elected to remain with him. Old Rogien, head of the Pontifical household. His wrinkled face seemed almost transparent in the harsh light, the veins blue at his temples.
“Thinking, Brother?”
Betanza smiled. “I have much to ponder.”
“Haven’t we all? His Holiness is a man of phenomenal abilities.”
“Phenomenal, yes.”
“You sound a little disgruntled, Brother.”
“Me?” Betanza glanced at the Pontiff’s group. They were out of earshot. And he had known Rogien a long time. “Not disgruntled, Rogien. Apprehensive perhaps.”
“Ah. Well, in time of war that is every man’s right.”
“We are not soldiers, though.”
“Aren’t we? We may not wear mail and wield swords, but we are warriors of a sort nonetheless.”
“And Charibon is not a barracks for all the soldiery of Almark.”
“But we are on the frontier now, Betanza. They say the Merduks have been sighted even on the eastern shores of the Sea of Tor itself. Charibon was sacked once, by the Cimbric tribes. Would you have it sacked again?”
Betanza grimaced. “You know very well that is not what I mean.”
“Maybe I do.” Rogien lowered his voice and drew close.
“But you will not find me admitting it.”
“Why not? Is free speech no longer allowed in Charibon?”
Rogien chuck
led. “Come now, Betanza, since when has free speech ever been allowed in Charibon?”
“You speak of heresy. I speak of policy.” Betanza was not amused. But the older monk was unfazed.
“It is all the same these days. If you do not know that yet, then you have not been paying attention. Come now, Brother—you were a duke, a man of power in the secular world. Are you so naive? Relearn the skills which you used before you donned that habit. They will prove invaluable in the days to come.”
“Damn it, Rogien, I did not become a monk to become some monastic aristocrat.”
“Oh please, Brother. You are a member of the most politicized religious order in the world—more than that, you are its head. Don’t come the martyred ascetic to me. If you meant what you say you’d be in a grey habit and bare feet, preaching to the poor in some dung-heap town in Astarac.”
Betanza could not reply. Rogien was right, of course. But it did not help.
“Come,” he said, nodding to the receding backs of the Pontiff and his entourage. “We’re being left behind.”
“No, Brother,” Rogien said coldly. “You are being left behind.”
SIX
T HE old conference chamber of the Torunnan High Command was a cavernous place, the walls lined with marble pillars, the fireplaces at each end large enough for a grown man to stand upright within. The ceiling arched up into a gloom of ancient rafters all hung with banners and battle-flags whose bright colours had been dimmed by age and smoke and dust—and the blood of the men who had died carrying them in battle. The building dated back to the Fimbrian Hegemony, but it had not been used in years, King Lofantyr preferring to meet his generals in more congenial chambers in the palace. But Queen Odelia, now ruler of Torunna, had reopened the hall wherein John Mogen and Kaile Ormann had once propounded their strategies. As the hierarchy of the Torunnan army gathered for their first conference with the new commander-in-chief, the ghosts of those past giants seemed to loom heavily out of the shadows.
