The Witch of Torinia

by Clifford Beal

  The Duke arose and Strykar and Malvolio hurriedly followed suit. “Tell no one of this event. Nor a word about the whiff of bastardy either. We will have the bells rung and the announcement read tomorrow in the market squares. Just pray that Ursino’s appetite for a wider war is not whetted. I must go and write to the queen. And Strykar...”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Get me those damned guns.”

  HIS HEAD STILL whirling, Strykar left the palazzo and after bidding his commander good fortune until the morrow, headed to the merchant’s row and down the alley where the apothecaries carried on their trade. The sight of a lone soldier was not an unusual one here, for it was often the destination of lovelorn men looking for a potion, a powder for crab itch, or a cure for a surfeit of drink. But the Coronel of the Black Rose had an altogether different purpose in mind.

  “Messere Strykar, sir!” cried the old apothecary, hurriedly wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Your arrival is most propitious!” He pulled the mercenary into the deeper recesses of his shop, the rafters a stinking collection of weeds, dried herbs, and dead birds, snakes and lizards, carefully preserved. “It’s taken me longer than I expected but the results have surprised even me.”

  Strykar found himself among a tangle of copper pipes and vessels, long-necked glass jars, scales, and two dozen burning candles to illuminate the workspace. The apothecary raised a finger dramatically then reached over to his bench to retrieve a small dark blue glass flask. “The elixir is ready.”

  Strykar smiled. “This better not kill me.”

  “My lord, may the saints strike me down if that were so. I have tasted it myself and do pronounce it most... appealing.” The little man held out the flask to Strykar. “It is as clear as the purest acqua vitalis. But the taste is altogether more challenging—and rewarding.”

  Strykar took the bottle and sniffed. It had virtually no scent whatsoever. But then again, myrra leaves didn’t either. Although chewing pure myrra could knock down a horse, he had always suspected that distilling the leaves might afford something better. Now he would see if that was true. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a cautious sip. His tongue felt the bite straight away, and then a taste of burnt honeycake that lingered but a moment before fading into a warmth that enveloped his mouth. His felt a jolt, a brief exhilaration, as the warmth slid down his neck. He took a longer swig and felt the effect again. He lowered the bottle and broke into a grin.

  The apothecary, who had the bulging eyes of a frog, beamed as he watched Strykar’s reaction. “The first batch gave my apprentice a headache for two full days but I have remedied that with an efficacious addition of essence of birch bark. In after-effects, it is no worse than any tavern-brewed acqua vitalis. In my humble opinion, sir, it is the finest elixir I have known. A cure for fatigue and veritable courage in a bottle.”

  Strykar nodded, smacking his lips, his head slightly euphoric. He had given the apothecary a small sack of leaves but he still had a bundle with Danamis at Palestro for safekeeping should the merfolk decide to trade again. And he knew the hillsides where the myrra trees grew on the edge of the border with Saivona. He could get more—or perhaps send someone else to get them. “How many leaves do you need to make a full flask of this stuff?”

  The apothecary scratched his cheek. “The leaf is remarkably strong in its properties. The yield is good. I would reckon a bushel to make twenty flagons, possibly more.”

  Strykar quickly did the sums. No one would need buy more than half a cup of it, sold in a little flask with a stopper.

  “Acqua miracula, yes?”

  Strykar smiled again. “Acqua miracula it shall be. Agreed.”

  “What do you propose to do with your elixir?”

  “To do with it? Why you’re going to brew it and we’re going to sell it. War is coming, master apothecary. Everyone is going to need a strong drink.”

  Seven

  AFTER THE NIGHT of terrors, a pall fell over the Ara with the coming of dawn. What had happened in the Temple Majoris could neither be wished or explained away. As news of the attack spread through the dormitory and refectory, a quiet sense of dread enveloped the monastery like an invisible fog drifting across the flagstones. Something otherworldly and evil had entered the sanctuary and done murder there among them. Acquel knew that the brotherhood was now looking to him. For both blame and deliverance. He had spent the remainder of the night with two other monks, tending to Brother Carlo’s wounds. Acquel had Carlo carried back to his own chambers in the palace and had woken the blackrobe who administered the dispensary. He followed with a basket of unguents, wych elm bark, and acqua vitalis. Grim-faced, they washed the slashes on the young monk’s torso, thankful that they were not deep wounds. Two long downward slashes from a claw had gone through his belly fat but no deeper, while another two had ripped across his ribcage cutting into the muscle wall. Carlo was near delirious with the shock of it all, babbling and raising his arms to ward off the flying things that still bedevilled his mind’s eye.

  The Magister was dead. Acquel, sword still in his shaking hand, had re-entered the treasury antechamber after the fight to find Lodi had bled out, the open eyes of his grey face staring at the ceiling in death. As Acquel had bent down to examine the old monk, the harsh torchlight revealed glistening loops of bowel protruding through the gaping wound in Lodi’s belly. It was an image Acquel could not rid himself of even hours later. He told no one that the Hand was stolen. It was clear to him that this was the reason why the harpies had come. Brother Lodi held the keys to the treasury and that was why he was taken and killed. It was a message from Lady della Rovera: she could touch them at will and take what she wanted. But what use would she have for the most sacred relic of the One Faith?

  He had sent one of the Templar guards to wake the High Priest soon after he had seen to the care of Carlo. Kodoris had arrived quickly, wearing a blackrobe habit he had hurriedly pulled on, feet sandal-shod. The brethren in attendance all bowed as he entered the chamber but Kodoris barely acknowledged them, his eyes settling on the wounded monk who lay moaning upon the bed.

  “In the name of all the saints what has happened?”

  “We were attacked, your Holiness.” Acquel’s voice was quiet.

  Kodoris looked again to the heaving chest of the wounded monk, now salved and bandaged and then turned his gaze back to Acquel. “Come with me, Brother Acquelonius.”

  They went out into the corridor and Kodoris grabbed Acquel’s arm. “Who did this thing?”

  “The Magister is dead. Murdered in the treasury.”

  Kodoris started. “How is that possible?”

  “Two fell creatures entered the Temple—flying things. They were as beasts of old. From the texts—harpies. I had a premonition, a vision of the treasury in my dreams. I awoke, and somehow... knew something was wrong. The amulet was burning upon me.”

  Kodoris shook his head, incredulous. “Creatures...”

  “I found Brother Carlo on guard and we went to the Temple and found the Magister upon the floor and the treasury open. We were attacked by these things, talons like cockerels—tall as men... but, sweet God, they were female. It was Lucinda della Rovera—her face.”

  Kodoris lowered his head. “The Seeker turned sorceress. So she has declared war upon us.”

  “There is more.” Acquel said. “These things stole the Hand of Ursula. Brother Lodi held the keys to the treasury and somehow she knew that. Once they had it they fled.”

  Kodoris seized Acquel’s arm. “The Hand? That reliquary has forever been carried at the vanguard when Valdur goes to war. She meant to deprive us of it before the battle has even begun.”

  “I have told no one else.”

  Acquel watched the High Priest’s lined face, his large brown eyes staring across the corridor, mind working.

  “Good. No one need know—yet. Does Brother Carlo know of the theft?”

  Acquel shook his head. “I am sure he did not see it, he was fighting another of the
creatures. It was the one I faced that held the reliquary.”

  “Then we must look to the defence of the Ara next. Your Templars must be on guard—in strength—each night. If more of these things should return, then what?” Kodoris looked back to Acquel and he could see the look of desperation in his face. The leader of the One Faith, bereft of a plan to save them from what was coming. “We had better hope that steel is enough to stay them. Steel and prayer alone.”

  Acquel was not so sure. If the sorceress could summon such terrible creatures, what else could she do? “Will you address the brethren this morning? We can gather in the refectory.”

  “I will tell them that the One Faith is under attack by those who would bring back the Tree and blood sacrifice. That we must look to the defence of the Ara.”

  “And tell them that we have no magic of our own with which to fight them?”

  Kodoris threw Acquel a look of icy defiance. “You are the chosen of the Lawgiver. Not I. And you are the Captain-General of your order. It is you who must open your heart to the voice of Elded. If he will speak.”

  Acquel felt queasy. What could they do? Poule had barely begun training those who knew nothing of fighting. He himself, hardly a competent soldier, armed with only a few vague visions of a saint long dead, an amulet that gave warning but not power. What could he accomplish? “You must find a new Magister,” he said, trying not to sound hopeless. “A blackrobe the brethren can rally to.”

  Kodoris looked at him but said nothing. He tilted his head, a certain grimness overriding the worry that his face had worn earlier. “You, Brother Acquelonius, will be the new Magister. Captain General of the Templar order and Magister alike. It is the right thing in time of war. It is you who possesses the blessing of Saint Elded.”

  Acquel was shaking his head even as the words left Kodoris’s lips. “I am too young. I know nothing of being a Magister.”

  “There is no other. It should have been you after me in the first place.”

  “Brother Lodi had the respect of all. I have only their fear. They do not know what I bring with me.”

  “I have killed to safeguard the One Faith. I have sacrificed the innocent,” Kodoris hissed. “I am responsible for being cozened by that witch in Torinia. Bringing her here to the Ara to find you. I am tainted. Forever. But you are not.”

  “I am only a man.”

  Kodoris seized him by his robes and pushed him against the wall, Acquel’s mouth fell open. “You, my brother, are all we have! Find your faith, damn you. Unlock the secrets that you bear in that cursed charm. Haven’t you asked yourself why the Saint chose you?” He loosened his grip and relaxed, stepping back. His voice became quiet again. “See to Brother Carlo. I will see that Magister Lodi is prepared for burial.” The High Priest turned and walked away.

  Acquel ran his hand along his face, shaking. He was alone. Utterly alone.

  THE CHOIR HAD sounded thin, voices constrained despite the soaring height of the nave of the Temple Majoris. There was more than sadness in the air at the funeral of Magister Lodi, there was uncertainty. Kodoris had given the eulogy and offered prayers. The brethren had joined in, praying not just for the soul of the murdered Magister but for their own as well. Acquel had stood at the side chapel, distracted, his eyes drawn to the columns above the treasury antechamber where he had battled the unspeakable creatures less than a week earlier. The brethren around him acknowledged his presence, his authority, but they did not offer companionship. To them, he was touched by Elded and, in turn, untouchable. He had become hardened. Kodoris’s vehemence had woken him to responsibility, reminding him that it was he himself who had demanded the role he now held: Defender of the Ara. That day he had taken measures. Every night, Templar monks in breast and back plate and bearing polearms paced the long arcades of the Ara palace. Always in pairs, they walked the monastery and Temple grounds through every hour of darkness until they saw the disk of the sun spread its welcome red light at dawn.

  Brother Carlo remembered little of the attack. Nor that the Hand had been stolen from them. Honey and ginger poultices had prevented rot from taking hold, which the brethren had feared would carry the young monk off within days.

  How Lucinda della Rovera would next strike he did not know but he worked with Bartolo Poule each day to train those of the brotherhood that had volunteered their lives, oaths sworn, to defend the One Faith. He thought they were making progress: faster reflexes, longer endurance at sparring, the basics of competency with sword and shield. Poule’s tirades were never-ending but the men had come to expect them; they offered encouragement in their own way. The day after Lodi’s funeral, in the morning Kodoris had announced to the Council of the Nine that Acquel was to be the next Magister. Poule was at his work table in the training yard, watching the exercises with an occasional shake of his head and shouted curses. The sky was pure blue, the sun already beginning to bake the trammelled ground of the yard. At Acquel’s approach, he turned and broke into a wide grin.

  “Ah, holy man! Another promotion I hear. What next? High Priest?”

  Acquel ignored him and slipped on his gambeson and began tying its points. “What is my next exercise, Lieutenant Poule?” he asked. “More longsword today or would you have me do shield work or learn pole-weapon?”

  Poule crossed his arms. “What do you fancy, Magister? I think I should give you the choice.”

  “I want to learn the longsword. Until I get it right. Without thinking.”

  Poule nodded. “That is the way it should be. If one has to think about a guard or a blow then it’s already too late and you’re dead.” He looked past Acquel, towards the stone archway that led to the yard and lifted his eyebrows. “What’s this then?”

  A group of around twenty young men were walking towards them, led by a white tabarded Templar. Acquel turned and saw that some were monks, the backs of their heads shorn, while others were not. The guardsman ushered them into the presence of Poule and explained they were recruits from afar who had heard of the new holy fighting order at the Temple and were eager to petition to join it.

  Poule rubbed his stubbly chin as he ran his eyes over them. “What do you think, Magister? A good crop?”

  Acquel looked at the faces before him. Some fair, some tanned, some untested, others with the look of seasoned tavern brawlers or even bandits that would as soon cut your throat as offer a greeting. “If they will take the oath of the Order than we will be glad of their service.”

  Poule placed his hands on his hips and his gravelly voice boomed out across the training yard. “Has your worthy guide explained to you what you are signing on for? Lots of fighting, my friends. But, I must be honest with you.” Poule gave them all a forlorn look and shook his head. “Your days of wenching are over. Hope you enjoyed them. As for strong drink, it is only permitted when we give it to you.” There were nods and a few murmurs. Poule let them die down. “Sweet Lord, you are all desperate shits aren’t you? Very well then, line up over there and be prepared to sign the articles or make your mark and swear the oath.”

  They shuffled along, a quiet nervousness amongst them, and took up station where Poule indicated. The mercenary turned to Acquel. “You understand,” he said, voice low, “that it’s going to take many months to train this lot up like real rondelieri. Many months.”

  “We don’t have many months,” replied Acquel, finishing his lacing and reaching for his breast and back plate. “You knew that from the start.”

  Poule smiled slyly. “Yes, I knew what a tub of shit I was leaping into. I can’t magick them into real soldiers. But I can make them proficient enough to give as good as they get. That I can promise you!”

  Acquel somehow managed a smile in return. Poule’s rough honesty gave him some solace and the mercenary now seemed like an old friend, maybe his only friend. “That is all I can ask of you, until Strykar takes you away.”

  Poule laughed and helped Acquel buckle his armour at the shoulder. “And on that day I ought to ask you to shave my
head and put me in a blackrobe. Just to see the look on the Coronel’s face!”

  Poule slapped Acquel’s shoulder. “Fetch your blade and I will test your guards.” Behind them came raised voices and they turned to see one of the lay monks, a former red cloak of the disbanded Temple Guard who had signed on immediately into the new Order, shouting at a man who, having lagged behind, had only just now joined the group of recruits.

  The former guardsman threw up his hands again and swore. “Look, I told you to bugger off, old man! Are you sun-addled or just mad? Go back to your own monastery.”

  Poule and Acquel reached them, a muttered curse on the former’s lips. “What’s all this then?”

  The exasperated guardsman turned to Poule and jerked his thumb towards an old monk who stood proud and unbowed before them, a walking staff in his right hand. “This old fool says he’s here to join the Templars. I’ve been trying to tell him to shove off since first this morning.”

  Acquel looked at the man. He had easily lived through sixty summers and winters and quite probably more. His hair was bone white, the tonsure at the back of his head showed a scarred scalp, the skin towards his nape collecting into yellowed folds. But his face, as lined and worn as it was, showed a ready defiance. His nose was more a rustic bump and as wide as a bull’s. The eyes glinted with intelligence, not befuddlement, and Acquel sensed something in the man. Something of interest.

  “Come now, brother monk,” said Poule politely. “I’m sure your heart is stout but I think you’re long past bearing arms. Perhaps the Magister here can find some other work for you... in the library. Or at least give you a decent meal.” Scattered laughter rippled through the recruits.

  The old monk leaned forward on his staff. He smiled at Poule. “If you think I am too old to bear arms then try me and see.”

  Poule stepped back. “I admire your spirit, brother monk, but I have work to do here this day. I have not the time to give an old man a beating.”