The Witch of Torinia

by Clifford Beal

  “I will meet them in the chapterhouse. See that they are guided there and given refreshment.”

  Acquel donned his tabard, smoothed out upon his shoulders the hood of his robes, and buckled on his belt and dagger. He briefly regarded himself in the tall looking-glass in the corner. The embroidered sun-in-splendour with drawn sword shone garishly upon his chest, and he felt a charlatan.

  When he pushed open the heavy double oak doors of the chapterhouse, he already had a likely idea who would be in the chamber. He was not disappointed. There, at the long refectory table at the far end, backed by the enormous tapestry of Elded and his disciples, stood three soldiers, all dressed in high boots and brigandines. The tallest among them he recognized immediately: Julianus Strykar, captain of the rondelieri column of the Black Rose. By his side stood his lieutenant, Poule. The other soldier he did not know. He rapidly closed the distance between them, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the intricately carved and gilded wood ceiling. He reached the delegation and bowed.

  Poule was beaming at the sight of Acquel but Strykar’s face was without emotion.

  Acquel smiled. “Captain Strykar, I’m grateful that you’ve come. It does my heart good to see you again.”

  Poule chuckled. “Hello holy man! See that you still have the dagger I lent you last summer. And the captain here is now raised a Coronel of the company.”

  Acquel looked again at Strykar and bowed. “I did not know. Your pardon.”

  Strykar fixed him with a hard look. “And you, brother monk, have had advancement of your own I hear. Captain General? A bit hasty for someone of your tender years who’s never swung a sword in anger, no?”

  Acquel ignored the jibe. “I do not know your other comrade, Coronel.”

  Strykar lifted his hand and gestured to the swarthy man with large dark eyes next to him. “This is Captain Cortese, who now commands the rondelieri in my stead.” Cortese inclined his head ever so slightly, his eyes meeting Acquel’s.

  “Your servant, Captain Cortese,” said Acquel, bowing again.

  Poule stepped forward and grasped Acquel by the arm. “It is damned good to lay eyes on you again, my boy!” he said. “We did not think you would ever be seen again.”

  Strykar set down his wine goblet on the table behind him. “Shut it, Poule,” he said quietly.

  Poule frowned and backed up a step, folding his arms across his chest.

  Acquel looked at Strykar, the man who had saved him from death on the road from Livorna eight months earlier. The mercenary had since shaved his unkempt beard and his cheeks had filled out over the winter. He had deeper crow’s feet perhaps, but it was the same man he had come to both fear and respect.

  Strykar met his gaze. “I want to hear from your own lips what happened, Brother Acquel. Why is it Timandra Pandarus is dead and you’re not? Was it a mistake that I released you that night in the camp outside Maresto?”

  It could have been a knife through his heart the words stung him so. “Your cousin saved my life, but I could not save hers. That is the truth of it and my shame. She swore to stand by me when we searched the crypt for the Black Texts, just as I wrote to you. I had been disarmed by that renegade, Flauros. She attacked him... wounded him sorely... but he stabbed her. She gave Magister Kodoris the time needed to put a sword through him.” Acquel swallowed hard as the terrible images filled his mind once again. He thought he could see Strykar’s eyes welling up for a moment and he heard the soldier sigh before turning and seizing his goblet again.

  “Would that you were a better swordsman, holy man,” the mercenary said.

  “I swear to you I would have done anything to save her.”

  “And why didn’t you strike Flauros while she struggled? Did you freeze?”

  “He struck my head with his hilt, and I went down.”

  Strykar took a deep swig of wine and wiped the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. He waved the goblet towards Cortese. “I have shared with Captain Cortese here, and old Poule, my conversation with Duke Alonso. The one we had after the Duke had read your letters.” Acquel nodded expectantly. “Who is this noblewoman—this new enemy—you speak of?”

  “She is not what she seems,” replied Acquel. “Lucinda della Rovera is skilled in the black arts. She came here to kill the High Priest and unleash something in the Temple. She seeks to overthrow the One Faith and restore the old ways—the old worship—the Tree.”

  “Della Rovera?” It was Captain Cortese who spoke, his voice like gravel. “The great beauty who has captivated the court of Torinia?”

  “The same. And ‘captivate’ does not begin to describe it. She is twisting Ursino’s mind, bending his will to make war not just on Maresto but upon the Faith also.”

  “What of this tree you speak of?” asked Strykar.

  “The Great Temple was built over the remains of a sacrificial tree,” replied Acquel. “A terrible tree that Saint Elded himself cut down when he drove out the worshippers of Andras, Belial and Beleth. Lucinda della Rovera has given life to the tree once again after all these centuries by drenching it in the blood of High Priest Brachus. We have worked to destroy it down in the Temple undercroft these many months. Still, the thing sprouts again within days. It needs no sunlight.”

  “Aye,” Strykar said. “I’ve seen a tree of my own. In Ivrea. A tree that devoured human flesh and whispered evil tidings. Thriving in a dungeon chamber. Is this what you speak of?”

  Acquel nodded slowly as Strykar’s news sunk in. So there were already even farther afield than he had been told.

  “And now you say this noblewoman plays the Duke of Torinia like some puppeteer?” said Cortese, his words tinged with disbelief.

  “I am saying exactly that,” Acquel said. “She slew the High Priest and God knows how many others. Even her own sister when she finally rebelled. And she has an unnatural power to make others do her bidding. I have seen this with my own eyes.”

  Strykar glanced over to Cortese who in turn raised a bushy eyebrow. “I’ve seen a few things these months past that would freeze your blood,” growled Strykar. “Things that are neither good nor godly. And Torinia rests heavy on my mind and Duke Alonso’s.”

  “You yourself have seen her, Strykar,” said Acquel. “On the quay at Perusia. That evening when Gregorvero and I were attacked.”

  “Aloysius’s balls. That was della Rovera?”

  “It was. And when she fled Perusia she came here to Livorna to pursue her plan against the One Faith.”

  Strykar did not reply but twisted the stem of his goblet in his hand, thinking.

  “She will seek to split Livorna off from the south,” continued Acquel. “They will cut Maresto down the middle and then turn to finish us off here on the Ara. I need more than the men of my own Temple Order to defend against a Torinian army.”

  Strykar chuckled. “So you’re an intelligencer and a strategist too now?”

  “Do not underestimate her. This is more than just about Torinia grabbing land. You yourself must know this to be the likely move. I need your help to meet the threat.”

  “And I suppose the fact that the new commandments you’ve adopted—that already, I might add, seem to have split the faithful down the middle—these have no part in all this?” Strykar set his goblet down. “Place your cards on the table, brother monk. Tell us what you want.”

  “I need a detachment of the Black Rose here in Livorna to stiffen the backs of the militia. And I need armour and weapons for my four hundred fighting brothers. And... I need Lieutenant Poule.”

  Cortese swore an oath under his breath. “Coronel, this upstart monk is seeking to pinch my officers right under my nose!”

  Poule blinked a few times and would have melted into the wall behind him if he could. But Strykar held up a hand to silence his captain’s outburst.

  “And what does the High Priest—or the High Steward for that matter—have to say about this?”

  “Both have given me responsibility for the defence of
the town and the Ara.”

  Strykar shook his head and smiled. “You have come a long way, my boy! If my own tongue were only half so convincing I’d be on the throne of Valdur.”

  “I am not a fool. I’m no soldier and I know it. I’ve tried to train the brethren with a few of the more artful guardsmen I disbanded but they’re not up to the task.”

  “So... Poule here is the answer to your prayers,” replied Strykar, trying to suppress a laugh.

  Acquel pushed his shoulders back. “I know and trust him. He’s a good fighter and a good teacher.”

  Poule grinned at the praise and inspected his feet.

  Cortese stepped forward, champing at the bit. “Surely you can’t consider leaving us in a goddamned monastery for garrison duty?”

  “The Duke has given me complete discretion to do as I wish,” said Strykar, keeping his eyes fixed upon Acquel. “And I haven’t yet decided. As for your request for arms, that I can meet. I have two wagonloads with me outside the walls as we speak.”

  Acquel bowed low. “Strykar, I am most grateful.”

  “Tell me. That amulet of yours. Does the Saint still guide you?”

  Acquel touched his chest. And then he lied. “The amulet guides me still.”

  Strykar nodded. “So much change in the world and in so short a time. I often wonder what we’ve done to deserve it.” He paused. “I will consider the remainder of what you ask. Come down to the encampment tomorrow and we will talk further. Bring a few of your most promising recruits.”

  Cortese folded his arms in a sulk but kept silent. Strykar placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I think that is all we have to discuss, for the moment.” As the double oak doors creaked open and Acquel ushered them into the entrance hall of the monastery, they were met by two liveried ‘Templars’ as the members of the Order now called each other.

  Poule leaned close to Acquel and whispered. “Very pretty tabards, brother monk. Sun and sword. Very good that.”

  Acquel smiled. “Brothers, escort the officers back to their camp.”

  Strykar slowed a pace and turned back to face Acquel. He gently laid a hand upon the monk’s wide sleeve. His words were softly spoken and heavy with regret. “I do not know if I can forgive you, Brother Acquel. But I will try.”

  Three

  TRAVELLERS SAY THAT memories of Palestro will linger in your mind like the smell of old fish in your nostrils. Captain Nicolo Danamis, admiral to the king and born and raised in the ancient port of Palestro, never subscribed to that cynical a view. He stood on the long quarterdeck of his caravel, the Vendetta, his heart swelling as the long and low warship entered the walled harbour of the city. Cartmen stopped and waved from the quay as the ship glided past, a gang of ragged boys ran full tilt from one side of the docks to the other to catch the ship where it would moor. Fishwives mending nets stood to watch his progress, their calloused hands shielding their eyes. Even old Edolis, his father’s captain-of-the-forecastle on the Royal Grace when he was just a boy, sat on his customary bench outside the chandlery saluting with his crutch held high.

  Danamis had just completed his second voyage to the free city of Ivrea in as many months, his hold now ballasted by the new marvel of the age: guns of cast orichalcum. It was these that had, eight months gone by, allowed him to defeat the mutineers that had taken Palestro from his control. Harder than any other metal known to the world, orichalcum guns could throw iron balls faster and farther than any hoop-bound, cast-iron cannon that fired stone shot. And it was he who had forged the alliance with Ivrea, the only place that held the secret of their making. It had made his fleet the most powerful in the kingdom of Valdur overnight.

  The vessel eased its way to the east quay under tow by rowers, all canvas furled, his ship’s master barking out commands as they neared. Seamen heaved out the thick cable to those waiting on the dock. Danamis’s eyes scanned the terraces of the city, each one rising up steeply behind the other. It was late in the afternoon, the sun reflecting its orange glow off the whitewashed stone houses. Palestro was built into a hillside, its ramshackle wooden houses clinging precariously up to the summit. The high plateau above held his palazzo and those of the wealthier sort of Palestro. All was ringed by a great stone wall, a gate at north, east and west. The joy of completing the voyage halfway around Valdur and back was tempered by what he knew awaited him: his father. Lord Valerian Danamis, a pirate turned mercenary who then turned ally and friend to King Sempronius, had returned from the dead eight months ago even as Danamis had defeated his enemies. It was Nicolo who had ruled as High Steward and Admiral after his father had not returned from a voyage to the Mare Meridies, gone for six years and assumed lost at sea. Valerian Danamis was a ghost he was still coming to terms with.

  “Thinking about your reunion?” It was Gregorvero, the master, who had climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck, now that the ship was made fast.

  “Which one?” replied Danamis, shaking his head forlornly.

  “I know the one you prefer, my friend.” Gregorvero reached his side and stood with his arms on the railing. “You will see her soon enough I am sure. But give your father good tidings of the voyage and the guns first.”

  “I thought after all these years he would have changed. Seeing the places and things he has seen. Being away from Valdur for so goddamn long.” He turned to the portly sun-scarred seaman and smiled. “But, after all that, he’s still a bastard.”

  “Aye, but he let you remain the king’s admiral. He could have taken that back too.”

  “He has other things on his mind these days. Fighting Southlanders and Torinians isn’t high on his list of priorities. I hope that the merfolk village fares well since we’ve been away. Lord Valerian is not a great believer in its fortunes. Truth be told, it hasn’t been an easy alliance of late, him and me.” The colony was just another excuse he had given his father to lambast him on his return from death. Danamis had allowed the merfolk of Valdur to create a village next to Palestro, the first in centuries after their flight to unknown sanctuary off the coast. He had done this in return for a great deal of treasure—and more active help in defeating the mutineers. But centuries of animosity between men and mer cannot be forgotten in a day—or months. Relations were delicate. All depended upon the mermaid Citala, daughter of the merfolk king. That too was a point of contention with his father. All of Palestro suspected—and many knew for certain—that Nicolo and the merfolk king’s daughter were lovers.

  “All the more reason to visit then, eh?” Gregorvero winked at his captain. “Now, what are your instructions for offloading the guns? The warehouse or the towers?”

  “Into the west tower and under guard. I doubt that Duke Ursino would try a raid into this harbour. He’s painfully aware of our new firepower, as the holes in his ships attest. He’d dearly like to have a few of these wondrous sakers for himself.”

  Gregorvero nodded. “And I hope that the Ivreans take seriously your warning about an attack upon them. There are many princes that would have such guns at their disposal.”

  Danamis clapped the ship’s master upon the shoulder as he turned to make for the stairs down to the main deck. “The Ivreans are no fools. Their council has assured me that the militia will be doubled, even if they have to press some of their miners.” As he descended, he raised his right arm in a mock flourish. “And so, off to bend my knee to father. If you need me, send word to the palazzo.”

  PALAZZO DANAMIS, RECENTLY renovated since the depravations of the mutineers and still smelling of pine, paint and linseed oil, lay behind tall stone walls in the upper town. Ransacked in the search for the Danamis treasure, the once glorious manor had been brought low: silver and tapestries stolen, windows smashed, walls knocked in, beds shat upon and the fireplaces used as piss-pots. But they had not found any treasure. Danamis dismounted at the open gates, a liveried retainer taking his reins. He knew where his father would be, in the great study on the first floor, denuded of most of its books, scrolls and charts. He pa
used and looked up at the yellow sandstone edifice, its magnificent oak door scarred by billhooks but still standing solid. Inside, the palazzo had been lavished with attention over the winter, Lord Valerian spending a thousand ducats on replacing what was stolen or destroyed. Expense hadn’t been an issue: he had made his unexpected return with a cargo hold fair stuffed with raw gold and gemstones from lands beyond the Mare Meridies. The haul Nicolo had made, trading his intoxicating myrra leaf for sunken treasure salvaged by mermen, paled in comparison. Most of that was gone now anyway, in payment to the Ivreans for the guns that saved his skin and to Maresto for ships and men.

  He climbed the great wide marble stairs leading to the upper storey of the palazzo, already dreading what news his father might have in store. He’d been away for a fortnight. That was long enough for anything to happen and time enough for his father to plan some new venture that would undoubtedly commit him as well. A retainer hurried ahead to announce him, his shoes slapping on the black and white tiles.

  Nicolo entered the chamber to find his father standing at the huge table that sat in the centre, mullioned windows bathing the study in warm sunlight. He was bent over a freshly pressed paper chart, calipers in hand, carefully rotating them to measure a distance. He did not turn to greet his son but his gruff voice barked out.

  “How did you fare then? A goodly success I hope.”

  Valerian Danamis was as tall as his son but his shoulder-length mane and short beard had turned snow-white since Nicolo had bid his father farewell six years ago. Nicolo approached the table and moved to the opposite side. “It was, my lord. Ten more guns for the fleet.”

  Valerian Danamis grunted. “Very good. And the alliance? It still holds? The council likes you well enough but what of the new High Steward there?”

  “The alliance is secure. The Council of Decurions and the High Steward are in complete agreement. Our alliance is their best insurance against encroachment by Milvorna or Torinia. They know that full well.”