Praise for Valdur
“A merrily anachronistic adventure... Beal keeps the action balanced expertly with complex political machinations.”
Publishers Weekly
“Beal is a storyteller who can handle plot adeptly enough to create a hugely compelling narrative... terrific fun.”
SFX Magazine
“An excellently gripping story of thievery, betrayal, piracy, and adventure... a fantastic and satisfying read.”
SciFi Now Magazine
“A cracking piece of salty fun. If you’re a fan of Michael Moorcock and Fritz Leiber, you will most likely love Clifford Beal; The Guns of Ivrea proves that Beal can deliver addictive, page-turning pulp with fun characters and nifty world building.”
Starburst Magazine
“Clifford Beal’s novel will suit those who want something somewhere in the middle of Scott Lynch’s Red Seas Under Red Skies and George R.R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones... A highly readable, fast-paced, fun adventure novel that somehow manages to be all of that without ever sacrificing on character development, authentic descriptions, and vivid world-building. Great reading that will keep you guessing until the very end.”
Fantasy Faction
“Fast-paced, intelligent fantasy action. A fascinating tale of intrigue, magic and war.”
Adrian Tchaikovsky
“Beginning with a deadly temple secret and leading into a pirate rebellion, Clifford Beal proves you can’t go wrong with a heavy dose of adventure and intrigue... From sea battles to subtle mental tricks, the fights are played out in many different ways and end with the promise of more.”
Mazarkis Williams
Also by Clifford Beal
Quelch’s Gold
Gideon’s Angel
The Raven’s Banquet
The Guns of Ivrea
First published 2017 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-78618-078-0
Copyright © 2017 Clifford Beal
Cover art by Adam Doyle
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
To Lorraine,
for bestowing the magic of books
One
THE DEVIL KEEPS his bargains. Men, on the other hand, do not.
Biagio sniffed and pulled his lower lip between thumb and grimy forefinger. He could see them on the crest of the hill ahead—two horsemen astride their mounts as still as stone and partially obscured by the silvery leaves of a ragged grove of alders. He saw a cloud of steam billow from the mouth of one of the horses, the crispness of the early dawn giving them away, if anyone else was bothering to watch. But at his back, he knew most of the little town of Persarola was just awakening on this spring morning, the promise of rain on the air obvious to those stumbling from their beds. He rubbed at the itching scalp underneath his grubby linen coif and turned to his companion, an equally rustic countryman whose nose was streaming snot down his hairy lip.
“They’re waiting,” Biagio said, a note of sourness creeping into his voice. “Just like they said they would be.”
His companion wiped his nose across the sleeve of his tunic and gave him a baleful eye. “Did you really expect them to lose interest? They’re soldiers, you had better have the right answers on your tongue.”
Biagio’s fingers tightened on the hazel staff he was poking into the ground. He shot a glance back to the walls of Persarola and the town gate. Several crows cawed at him from the fields on either side, adding their own chastisement. “You just let me do the talking, Pandolfo. It’s my arrangement. And you’re lucky I let you in on it to begin with. Even if you are my sister’s husband.”
Pandolfo twisted his mouth, unconvinced. “If you say so. We’ll see if they deliver the coin. Don’t hold your breath.”
They set to scaling the grass covered slope, a few low scraggly bushes giving them handholds. They sidestepped the gravel strewn clefts made by the incessant winter rains of Valdur, slipping and cursing as they made their way up. At last, they reached the crest. Below them, Persarola sat snug in the valley surrounded on three sides by farmers’ fields: richly brown, ploughed and sowed. Beyond this vista, the Duchy of Maresto sprawled westwards as far as the eye could see. Away to their right, northwards, far distant mountains, purple-grey, could be seen melding with the dark sky. In the foothills of those mountains lay the free city of Livorna, home to the One Faith and the Temple Majoris that stood ancient upon the rocky plateau of Ara.
They walked towards the grove, the mounted men still sitting rigid in their high saddles but now observing them in an almost detached manner. A few miles further, eastwards, across the undulating plain spotted with copse and field, ran the frontier with the Duchy of Torinia. And that was from where these mounted soldiers had come. Biagio could feel his breaths coming faster even though he had completed his climb. He saw one of the horsemen cinch up on his reins and turn his mount slightly towards them. God knew he was used to seeing soldiers and armies, living as he did in a border hamlet, a border that seemed to move as frequently as his bowels. But he never trusted them, particularly these mercenaries. The Company of the Blue Boar. As contrary as a rich whore at a fair. And now it was too late to turn back. He had made his deal and now he had to stick to it come what may.
As they approached the gently swaying branches of the alders, Biagio swiped his sweat-stained coif from his head and gripped it between both hands. His companion hurriedly followed suit, doffing his brown woollen beret and breaking into a disingenuous grin of abject good humour.
“Well, what joy do you have for me?” said the closer of the two horsemen.
They were both arrayed in white harness, shining dully in the colourless overcast of the dawn. Both wore long slender swords at their hips, simple cross guards and round pommels protruding at their saddle bows. The visors of their sallet helms were unlatched and raised, revealing hard faces; the faces of men who knew command and war. The other officer—one as yet unknown to the peasant—was a few years older than his companion, and wore a blue satin sash over his breast and backplate. His long face, with angular features, was as smooth, pale, and unblemished as a maiden’s, despite the man’s age, and lacked the usual corpulence that Biagio saw in men of wealth and position. His armour was far grander than his companion’s. Breastplate, paulders, vambraces all edged in fine rolled brass with a mirrored finish. His helm, tapering back to a sharp point behind his nape, was decorated with swirling filigree, blackened upon the steel to give it impressive relief. Surely, thought Biagio, this was the commander of the company of the Blue Boar himself. Despite the queasiness welling up in him, Biagio managed a smile and a bow of his greasy head to the more junior officer.
“A good morrow, my captain sir!”
The officer’s mount stamped and snorted. Biagio took half a step back as the horse’s black eyes fixed him. Captain Janus smiled as he leaned over and looked down on the man.
“He always knows who he wants to trample. And today he seems to like you.” The smile evaporated. “Now, what intelligence do you have for me? Any changes to the militia?”
The pe
asant nodded, his eyes darting to the other officer—captain-general or Coronel—who sat staring at him as his horse gently shifted its weight. “No more than a hundred men. At least a fair number of them old. Mainly glaives, a few swords, some round shields.”
Janus leaned back against the cantle of his saddle. “So, they haven’t beefed up the garrison. And what about the gates?”
Biagio smiled—more sincerely this time, proud of his cleverness. “My man drank the gatekeepers stupid last night. When we crept out a while ago the gates were wide open and all of them asleep in their clothes.”
The captain nodded. “You haven’t seen any companies of Maresto of late?”
“Only a few squadrons of rondelieri horsemen that passed by more than a week ago, on their way north. No more than that, my captain.”
“And what flag flies from the temple tower?” the older officer asked, voice laced with impatience.
Biagio crushed his cap in his hands and stuttered. “The... flag, sir?”
Coronel Lupo Aretini, commander of the Blue Boar’s two columns of cavalry, both heavy and light, looked to his captain. “Is this man a half-wit? I ask him a simple question and he gives me one in return.”
“Around here we’d consider ourselves most fortunate to find even a half-wit,” replied Janus, gently tugging the reins as his mount stamped again. He turned back to the peasant. “The Temple flag, you fool. The one with the sun upon it.”
Biagio nodded. “Aye. It flies even now.”
“How many rays lie upon the sun? Tell me.” Aretini edged his horse closer.
The two peasants exchanged worried glances and bumped shoulders. Rotund Biagio balked again, words somehow failing to emerge from his throat, only an incoherent gurgle of confusion as he looked to Pandolfo for support.
Aretini’s right hand leaned heavily on the pommel of his sword. “Sweet Aloysius! Is it that difficult? Seven or ten rays on the sun? Come now, you dolt!”
Biagio felt his balls shrivel as he turned again to his comrade. “Did you notice how many?”
Pandolfo stepped forward with some bravado, bowing his head. “There are ten, sir. Ten spokes upon that sun flag.”
The Coronel nodded. “So, there are Decimali preaching there now.”
Biagio forgot his reticence. “Decimali, sir? They look like the same black-robed priests as always.”
Aretini’s white teeth flashed for a moment. “You are not a regular worshipper, are you, my man? De... ci... mali. Tenners. The new heresy out of Livorna.”
The peasant blinked and shot a glance over to Pandolfo.
Janus leaned over his saddlebow. “They have added three heretical commandments to those of Saint Elded. Distasteful unholy truck with the merfolk. Commandments that encourage open dissent to the authority of the High Priest and Grand Curia.” He got little reaction. “Do you live in some hole in the ground? The old High Priest was murdered last summer. There’s a whole new lot in charge of the Great Temple.”
Both peasants nodded, if somewhat dubiously. “Her-e-ti-cal,” mumbled Biagio.
The captain raised an eyebrow, now doubting his earlier decision to employ these two as his devastatori—ravagers to be unleashed after the Blue Boar was finished with its work that day. He looked to Aretini who shook his head at the lack of perspicacity of the villagers. The Coronel waved a hand to signal that he proceed. Janus unlooped a small leather purse from a horn on his saddle and hefted it in his gloved hand. “You two still have how many in your little band of brothers?”
“Forty-three sturdy men, sir!”Biagio proudly proclaimed.
“And you remember what’s expected of you after we clear out the town? Drive out every last pig and cow. Every chicken and goose. We’ll trammel as many of the fields as we can but you’re welcome to tear up or thieve whatever else you might find. Torch what takes your fancy. We’ll give the rats a way out by the west gate but they’ll have damn little reason to come back after we’re gone.” He leaned over again and lowered his voice. “And your gang is going to make sure of that.”
Both peasants gave a vigorous nod and the mercenary tossed the leather pouch down to them. “That should keep all of you happy enough. But make sure you do a thorough job.”
Aretini had raised himself in the saddle and was peering at the red tiled roofs of the tightly nestled houses. His pale eyes, the same colour as the listless sky, settled upon the tall white stone, four-square tower of the town’s holy temple. From a pole lashed at its top, a standard billowed. “Foolish that they would not change the flag entirely if they are so keen to recast the One Faith,” he said. “I mean, how is one to tell enemy from friend?”
The captain followed his gaze. “And preaching new commandments beyond the seven... after all these centuries. Ten commandments supposedly delivered by the Lawgiver—and then conveniently forgotten?”
“That’s three more commandments than I need,” said Aretini.
“And the priests down there?” asked Captain Janus, thrusting forward his stubbled chin.
“Heretics. Kill them all.” He sighed and jerked the reins of his mount, turning it away. “Aye, well, it’s not proper battle I know. Unfortunate business. But Duke Ursino’s will be done. Give the order to advance.”
And without bothering to dismiss the peasants, the horsemen rode back over the crest of the hill. The peasants exchanged a look of relief and Biagio, feeling he was about to leap from a precipice into a swirling sea of shit, breathed a heavy sigh. He knotted the purse around the thin worn belt of his jerkin before pressing his coif back on his head. They followed the horsemen at a respectful distance then stopped dead as they looked beyond. Hundreds of mounted men were now trotting through the vale, preparing to gush forth from its widening throat. They came on, four abreast. Lightly armoured in studded leather brigantines and open-face barbute helms, every man bore a short lance and a sword at his hip. The column pounded across the spongy ground, taking a wide turn still in good formation. Biagio watched as the captain galloped down the hillside to catch them up while the Coronel cantered towards the rear of the force, some five-hundred strong. Further back down the column two great standards whipped taut, borne aloft by dizzily garbed soldiers dressed in flowing dag-toothed coats of red and white. One was painted with a dark blue charging boar upon a white field, the battle flag of the mercenary company. The other bore the crest of the duchy of Torinia: two red towers flanking a golden bull above which shone a seven-rayed sun in splendour. Biagio saw the captain raise his drawn sword to be immediately answered by a trumpeter, the peal echoing across the valley.
Biagio and his brother-in-law stood and watched as the vanguard narrowed to two files and dashed through the gates at a canter, lances couched. They did not have to wait long for the cries of alarm, swiftly followed by screams.
“We’ll be rich,” remarked Biagio quietly. “But I’ll be moving to Torinia after this is done. Because we’ll be dead men if we stay hereabouts.”
Pandolfo wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Aye, you’re right in that. Too bad. Your sister loves that little house and yard.”
THE BLUE BOAR cavalry pounded down the High Street, hooves slipping in the mud, riders breaking off down alleys to pursue folk, whooping as they dug in their spurs. A few of the town militia, jerkins hastily laced, ran to engage, clutching rusty glaives and spears. They were spitted where they stood. By the time the captain trotted down the street, well behind the vanguard, looting had begun and grim games of hide-and-seek with the womenfolk of Persarola had broken out. He pulled up short and cursed loudly as a dismounted soldier cut past him, pursuing a screaming chemise-clad woman terrified for life and honour. When he reached the square he saw that a group of thirty or so militia had formed a hedgehog of pole weapons, backs to the large square stones of the temple. Some of his men were laughing and harrying them from horseback, their lances clattering along the shafts of the glaives and spears.
The captain swore and gestured to a contingent of mounted crossbowmen who
were just entering behind him. “You lot! Over here! Take these men down.”
The bowmen dismounted, lay quarrels in their stocks, and took aim. Once the strings began to speak their muffled twang it was quickly over. Two defenders, crossbow bolts protruding from their gambesons, made a desperate break but were hacked to the ground by the press of mercenaries. The large studded oak doors of the temple gave way to the combined muscle of half a squadron of grunting soldiers and the mass of men fell inwards, the cries of those inside now spilling out to the captain’s ears. A few moments passed and a soldier came running out, sword in hand.
“Captain, sir! You should have a look at this.”
“Elded’s bollocks!” Janus muttered, swinging his leg out of the saddle and jumping to the cobbles with a metallic jangle. He threw his reins to a mounted comrade and drew his long slender war sword, spurs jingling as he strode to the doorway and crossed the threshold. Tall, narrow slit windows cast some feeble light into the great hall but at the altar end, iron candelabra blazed upon the raised platform, illuminating something he had not expected to see.
Two crumpled black forms lay in the aisle. Dead priests. Further on, at the apse, a last stand of sorts was being played out. Three black-robed priests and a younger, clearly terrified greyrobe were backed up against the brocade-shrouded altar itself. And standing in front of them, shoulder to shoulder, stood two defenders with feet braced, bearing round shields and swords, their heads bare. His own men had retreated from the altar, swords poised and waiting for orders. Janus tilted his head slightly in bemusement. Here were two lads up for a fight but they were no town militiamen. Most strange of all, their heads were shaved bare at the back and sides, leaving a mop of unkempt locks on their crowns. A smile parted his lips. They were monks. Fighting monks.
The Witch of Torinia Page 1
