The Second Empire: Book Four of The Monarchies of God

by Paul Kearney

  But Abeleyn was King again, Jemilla had been foiled, and Hebrion was, finally, at peace. Time perhaps to begin wondering about the fate of the rest of the world. A caravel from Candelaria had put into Abrusio only the day before with a cargo of wine and cinnamon, and it had brought with it news of the eastern war. The Torunnan King had been slain before the very gates of his capital, it was said, and the Merduks were advancing through the Torrin Gap. Young Lofantyr dead, Golophin thought. He had hardly even begun to be a king. His mother would take the throne, but that might create more problems than it solved. Golophin did not give much for Torunna’s chances, with a woman on the throne—albeit a capable one—the Merduks to one side and the Himerians to the other.

  Closer to home, the Himerian Church was fast consolidating its hold over a vast swathe of the continent. That polite ninny, Cadamost, had invited Church forces into Perigraine with no thought as to how he might ever get them out again. What would the world look like in another five years? Perhaps he was getting too old to care.

  He stretched and returned to the workbench. Upon it a series of large glass demi-johns with wide necks sat shining in the light of a single candle. They were all full of liquid, and in one a dark shape quivered and occasionally tapped on the glass which imprisoned it. Golophin laid a hand on the side of the jar. “Soon, little one, soon,” he crooned. And the dark shape settled down again.

  “Another familiar?” a voice asked from the window. Golophin did not turn round.

  “Yes.”

  “You Old World wizards, you depend on them too much. I think sometimes you hatch them out for companionship as much as anything else.”

  “Perhaps. They have definite uses, though, for those of us who are not quite so . . . adept, as you.”

  “You underestimate yourself, Golophin. There are other ways of extending the Dweomer.”

  “But I do not wish to use them.” Golophin turned around at last. Standing silver in the moonlight by the window was a huge animal, an eldritch wolf which stood on its hind legs, its neck as thick as that of a bull. Two yellow lights blinked above its muzzle.

  “Why this form? Are you trying to impress me?”

  The wolf laughed, and in the space of a heartbeat there was a man standing in its place, a tall, hawk-faced man in archaic robes.

  “Is this better?”

  “Much.”

  “I commend you on your coolness, Golophin. You do not even seem taken aback. Are you not at least a little curious about who I am and what I am doing here?”

  “I am curious about many things. I do not believe you come from anywhere in the world I know. Your powers are . . . impressive, to say the least. I assume you are here to enlighten me in some fashion. If you were going to kill me or enslave me you could have done so by now, but instead you restored my powers. And thus I await your explanations.”

  “Well said! You are a man after my own heart.” The strange shape-shifter walked across the chamber to the fireplace where he stood warming his hands. He looked around at the hundreds of books which lined the circular walls of the room, noted one, and took it down to leaf through.

  “This is an old one. No doubt much of it is discredited now. But when I wrote it I thought the ideas would last for ever. Man’s foolish pride, eh?” He tossed the aged volume over to Golophin. The Elements of Gramarye by Aruan of Garmidalan. It was hand-written and illuminated, because it had been composed and copied in the second century.

  “You can touch things. You are not a simulacrum,” Golophin said steadily, quelling the sudden tremble in his hands.

  “Yes. Translocation, I call it. I can cross the world, Golophin, in the blink of an eye. I am thinking of announcing it as a new Discipline. It is a wearying business, though. Do you happen to have any wine?”

  “I have Fimbrian brandy.”

  “Even better.”

  Golophin set down the book. There was an engraving of its author on the cover. The same man—Lord above, it was the same man! But he would have to be at least four centuries old.

  “I think I also need a drink,” he said as he poured out two generous measures of the fragrant spirit from the decanter he kept filled by the fire. He handed one to his guest and Aruan—if it truly could be he—nodded appreciatively, swirled the liquid around in the wide-necked glass and sipped it with gusto.

  “My thanks, brother mage.”

  “You would seem to have discovered something even more startling than this translocation of yours. The secret of eternal youth, no less.”

  “Not quite, but I am close.”

  “You are from the uttermost west, the place Bardolin disappeared to. Aren’t you?”

  “Ah, your friend Bardolin! Now there is a true talent. Golophin, he does not even begin to appreciate the potential he harbours. But I am educating him. When you see him again—and you will soon—you may be in for a surprise. And to answer your question: yes, I come from the west.”

  Golophin needed the warmth of the kindly spirit in his throat. He gulped it down as though it were beer.

  “Why did you restore my powers, Aruan? If that is who you are.”

  “You were a fellow mage in need. Why not? I must apologise for the . . . abrupt nature of the restoration. I trust you did not find it too wearing.”

  It had been the most agonising experience Golophin had ever known, but he said nothing. He was afraid. The Dweomer stank in this man, like some pungent meat left to rot in a tropical clime. The potency he sensed before him was an almost physical sensation. He had never dreamt anyone could be so powerful. And so he was afraid—but absolutely fascinated too. He had so many questions he did not know where to begin.

  “Why are you here?” he asked at last.

  “A good idea. Start out with the most obvious one. Let us just say that I am on a grand tour of the continent, catching up on things. I have so much to see, and so little time! But also, I have always had a liking for Hebrion. Do you know, Golophin, that there are more of the Dweomer-folk here in this kingdom than in any other? Less, since the purges orchestrated by the Mother Church, of course, but still an impressive number. Torunna is almost wholly deserted by our people now, Almark never had many to begin with—too close to Charibon. And in Fimbria there was some kind of mind-set which seemed to militate against our folk from the earliest times. One could hypothesize endlessly on the whys and wherefores, but I have come to believe that there is something in the very bones of the earth which causes Dweomer-folk to be born, an anomaly which is more common in some locations than others. Were your parents mages?”

  “No. My father was an official in the Merchants’ Guild.”

  “There—you see? It is not heredity. There is some other factor at work. We are freaks of nature, Golophin, and have been persecuted as such for all of recorded history. But that will change.”

  “What of Bardolin? What have you done with him?”

  “As I said, I have begun to unlock his powers. It is a painful procedure—such things have never been easy—but in the end he will thank me for it.”

  “So he is still alive, somewhere out in the west. Are the myths true then? There is actually a Western Continent?”

  “The myths are true. I had a hand in creating some of them. Golophin, in the west we have an entire world of our own, a society founded on the Dweomer. There is something back there in the very air we breathe—”

  “There are more of you then?”

  “I am the only one of the original founders who survived thus far. But there are others who came later. We are few, growing fewer. That is why I have returned to the Old World. We need new blood, new ideas. And we intend to bring with us a few ideas of our own.”

  “Bring with you? So you mages from the west are intent upon returning to Normannia!”

  “One day, yes. That is our hope. My work at present is the preparation of the world for our coming. You see now why I am here? We will need friendly voices raised on our behalf in every kingdom, else our arrivall might result in p
anic, even violence. All we wish, brother mage, is to come home.”

  A sudden thought shook Golophin. “One moment—the wolf image. That was a simulacrum, yes?”

  Aruan grinned. “I wondered when that question would come up. No, it was not. I am a shifter, a sufferer of the black disease, though I no longer see it as an affliction.”

  “That is impossible. A mage cannot also be a lycanthrope.”

  “Bardolin thought so also. He knows better now. I am a master of all Seven Disciplines, and I am busy creating more. What I am here tonight to ask, Golophin, is whether you will join us.”

  “Join you? I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I think you do. Soon I will no longer be a furtive night visitor, but a power in the world. I want you to be my colleague. I can raise you very high, Golophin. You would no longer be the servant of a king, but a veritable king yourself.”

  “Some might think your ambitions a little too wide-ranging. How are you going to manage this?”

  “Time will tell. But it is going to happen. The lines are being drawn all over the continent, though not many are aware of them yet. Will you join us, Golophin? I would consider it an honour to have a man such as you in our camp. Not merely a powerful mage, but a keen mind used to the intricacies and intrigues of power. What do you say?”

  “You are very eloquent, Aruan, but vague. Do you fear to tell me too much?”

  Aruan shrugged. “You must take some things on trust, that is true. But I cannot relate to you the details of a plan which is still incomplete. For now, it would be enough if you could at least consider yourself our friend.”

  The lean old wizard stared at his visitor. Aruan’s face was angular and autocratic, and there was a cruelty lurking there in the eyes. Not a kindly, nor yet a generous countenance. But Golophin sensed that in this, at least, he was speaking the truth. Imagine: an entirely new world out there beyond the endless ocean, a society of mages living without fear of the pyre. It was a staggering concept, one that sent a whole golden series of speculations racing through Golophin’s mind. And they wanted to come back here, to the Old World. What could be wrong with finding a home for such . . . such castaways? The knowledge they must have gathered through the centuries, working in peace and without fear! The ancient wizard had a point: how many more decades or centuries of persecution could the Dweomer-folk take before they were wiped out altogether? At some point they had to stand together and halt it, turn around the prejudices of men and demand acceptance for themselves. It was a glittering idea, one which for a second made Golophin’s heart soar with hope. If it were only possible!

  And yet, and yet—there was something deeply disturbing here. This Aruan, for all his surface charm, had a beast inside him. Golophin could not forget that one, desperate mind-scream he had heard Bardolin give thousands of leagues away.

  Golophin! Help me in the name of God—

  The terror in that cry. What had engendered it?

  “Well?” Aruan asked. “What do you say?”

  “All right. Consider me friendly to your cause. But I will not divulge any of the secrets or strategies of the Hebrian crown. I have other loyalties too.”

  “That is enough for me. I thank you, Golophin.” And Aruan held out a hand.

  But Golophin refused to shake it. Instead he turned and refilled his glass. “I suggest you leave now. I have to be on my way back to the city very soon. But”—he paused—“I wish to speak with you again. I possess an inquisitive mind, and there is so much I would know.”

  “By all means. I look forward to it. But before I go, I will show my goodwill with a gift . . .”

  Before Golophin could move, Aruan had swooped forward like a huge dark raptor. His hand came down upon Golophin’s forehead and seemed fixed there, as though the fingers had been driven like nails through the skull. Golophin’s glass dropped out of his hand and shattered on the stone floor. His eyes rolled up to show the whites and he bared his teeth in a helpless snarl.

  Moisture beaded Aruan’s face in a cold sheen. “This is a great gift,” he said in a low voice. “And a genuine one. You have a subtle mind, my friend. I want it intact. I want loyalty freely given. There.” He stepped back. Golophin fell to his knees, the breath a harsh gargle in his throat.

  “You will have to experiment a little before you can use it properly,” Aruan told him. “But that inquisitive mind of yours will find it a fascinating tool. Just do not try to cross the ocean with it in search of your friend Bardolin. I cannot allow that yet. Fare thee well, Golophin. For now.” And he was gone.

  Panting, Golophin laboured to his feet. His head was ringing as though someone had been tolling a bell in his ears for hours. He felt drunk, clumsy, but there was a weird sense of well-being burning through him.

  And there—the knowledge was there, accessible. It opened out before him in a blaze of newfound power and possibilities.

  Aruan had given him the Discipline of Translocation.

  NINE

  W ILD-EYED, filthy and exhausted, the prisoners were herded in by Marsch’s patrol like so many cattle. There were perhaps a dozen of them. Corfe was called to the van of the army by a beaming Cathedraller to inspect them. He halted the long column and cantered forward. Marsch greeted him with a nod.

  The prisoners sank to the cold ground. Their arms had been bound to their sides and some of them had blood on their faces. Marsch’s troopers were all leading extra horses with Merduk harness: compact, fine-boned beasts with the small ears and large eyes of the eastern breeds.

  “Where did you find them?” Corfe asked the big tribesman.

  “Five leagues north of here. They are stragglers from a larger force of maybe a thousand cavalry. They had been in a town.” Here Marsch’s voice grew savage. “They had burnt the town. The main body had waggons full of women amongst them, and herds of sheep and cattle. These”—he jerked his head towards the gasping, prostrate Merduks—“were busy when we caught them.”

  “Busy?”

  Again, the savagery in Marsch’s voice. “They had a woman. She was dead before we moved in. They were taking turns.”

  The Merduks cowered on the ground as the Torunnans and tribesmen, glaring, gathered about them.

  “Kill the fuckers,” Andruw said in a hiss which was wholly unlike him.

  “No,” Corfe said. “We interrogate them first.”

  “Kill them now,” another soldier said. One of Ranafast’s Torunnans.

  “Get back in ranks!” Corfe roared. “By God, you’ll obey orders or you’ll leave this army and I’ll have you march back to Torunn on your own. Get back there!”

  The muttering knot of men moved apart.

  “There were over a score of them,” Marsch went on as though nothing had happened. “We slew eight or nine and took these men as they were pulling on their breeches. I thought it would be useful to have them alive.”

  “You did right,” Corfe told him. “Marsch, you will escort them down the column to Formio. Have the Fimbrians take charge of them.”

  “Yes, General.”

  “You saw only this one body of the enemy?”

  “No. There were others—raiding parties, maybe two or three hundred each. They swarm over the land like locusts.”

  “You weren’t seen?”

  “No. We were careful. And our armour is Merduk. We smeared it with mud to hide the colour and rode up to them like friends. That is why we caught them all. None escaped.”

  “It was well done. These raiding bands, are they all cavalry?”

  “Most of them. Some are infantry like those in the big camp at the King’s Battle. All have arquebuses or pistols, though.”

  “I see. Now take them down to Formio. When we halt for the night I want them brought to me—in one piece, you understand?” This was for the benefit of the glowering Torunnans who were standing in perfect rank but whose knuckles were white on their weapons.

  “It shall be so.” Then Marsch displayed a rare jet of anger and outrage.r />
  “They are not soldiers, these things. They are animals. They are brave only when they attack women or unarmed men. When we charged them some threw down their weapons and cried like children. They are of no account.” Contempt dripped from his voice. But then he rode close to Corfe and spoke quietly to his general so that none of the other soldiers overheard.

  “And some of them are not Merduk. They look like men of the west, like us. Or like Torunnans.”

  Corfe nodded. “I know. Take them away now, Marsch.”

  A LL the rest of the day, as the army continued its slow march north, the prisoners were cowering in Corfe’s mind. Andruw was grim and silent at his side. They had passed half a dozen hamlets in the course of the past two days. Some had been burnt to the ground, others seemed eerily untouched. All were deserted but for a few decaying corpses, so maimed by the weather and the animals that it was impossible to tell even what sex they were. The land around them seemed ransacked and desolate, and the mood of the entire army was turning ugly. They had fought Merduks before, met them in open battle and striven against them face to face. But it was a different thing to see one’s own country laid waste out of sheer wanton brutality. Corfe had seen it before, around Aekir, but it was new to most of the others.

  Andruw, who knew this part of the world only too well, was directing the course of their march. The plan was to circle around in a great horseshoe until they were trekking back south again. The Cathedrallers would provide a mobile screen to hide their movements and keep them informed as to the proximity of the enemy. When they encountered any sizeable force the main body of the army would be brought up, put into battle-line, and hurled forward. But so far they had not encountered any enemy formation of a size which warranted the deployment of the entire army, and the men were becoming frustrated and angry. It was four days since they had left the boats behind, and while the Cathedrallers had been skirmishing constantly, the infantry had yet to even see a live Merduk—apart from these prisoners Marsch had just brought in. Corfe felt as though he were striving to manage a huge pack of slavering hounds eager to slip the leash and run wild. The Torunnans especially were determined to exact some payment for the despoliation of their country.