“The Ara,” he gasped. “We must get to the Temple. She is here. Here now!”
Volpe’s large eyes bulged. “The witch! Sweet Elded save us.” Acquel felt himself lifted back onto his feet as if by a miracle, the old monk finding new strength. The burning amulet had cooled a little, though pulsing hot still, yet tolerable on his chest. The Saint had gotten his attention.
“Hurry!” shouted Acquel, staggering across the courtyard and running up the wide street to the west. The old monk was at his heels, puffing and wheezing as they flew past the houses, knocking folk out of the way and gaining a few Templars as they ran until they had four monks in tow.
“Magister!” cried one. “Where are we going?”
“The Temple is under attack!” yelled Acquel without turning back.
The monk, wearing a brigantine made for a far larger man, cast a worried glance to the one jogging next to him whose bouncing sallet helm had all but obscured his vision. “It’s just usgoing?”
STRYKAR GRUNTED AS he and a militiaman stooped to tip the steaming cauldron down the murder hole at their feet. Their effort was rewarded by an ear-splitting screech of pain from one of the griffons beneath them. “More!” bellowed Strykar, tossing the iron pot behind him. He took a few steps back, his hands burning with pain through his leather gauntlets and looked up to the dog-toothed parapet of the barbican. And he stopped. Standing up on the ledge was Demerise, bow in hand. Shafts flew past and over her as she took a bead and loosed one of her own, aimed downwards at the griffons.
“Goddamned foolish bitch!” He was on his feet, scrambling to reach her as she drew another arrow from her quiver and set it in her bow. She wore no armour at all and it was only blind luck, or some heavenly mercy, that she had not yet been pierced by bowshot. “Get down! Give me your hand!” Strykar was on the ledge reaching up but she only glanced back at him, determined to take her bead on the screeching monsters beneath her. Strykar’s mouth gaped as he saw her lean over to better her aim and then she was down, her lead foot slipping off the mossy stone. The rest of her followed in a heartbeat as Strykar scrambled up onto the ledge. “Demerise!” He peered over and saw her, one foot on a corbel, the other dangling while one hand gripped onto a rusty old chain that had been left from the old drawbridge mechanism, long ago dismantled. She was still clutching her bow as she kicked to bring up her other foot. Strykar roared and threw himself over the parapet, his armour scraping the stones, straining to reach for her. Demerise’s scarf had unwound and he could see her whole face, scarred and now twisted with exertion as she hung on. One of the griffons had seen her and it reared up, claw stretching for the corbel ledge. Strykar bellowed, reaching for her wrist. His head rocked: a spent bolt had glanced from his helm. Two others struck the barbican within feet of Demerise, snapping as they struck the stones.
Strykar felt hands on his legs and feet and a moment later he was being hauled up, still clenching Demerise’s wrist. A giant yellow cockerel-like claw brushed her boot, scraping furiously as the beast tried to latch onto her. Strykar’s face contorted as he felt his arm wrench. Yet his eyes were locked on hers, her mouth moving wordlessly in shock. Somehow, she lifted her boot, gained the corbel, and Strykar threw his other arm down to get another grip of her. Soon he had her by the shoulders, hauling her up onto the ledge between the merlons. “You damned stupid cow!” he shouted into her ear as he pulled, and with a yank from two militiamen they both fell backwards and onto the walkway. She was on his chest, in his arms, breaths coming fast.
“I hit it... I hit it!” she said. “But... but it bounced off like it was steel.”
Strykar rolled her off, sputtering. “What in hell’s name made you do that. If the arrows didn’t strike you those things would have!”
She was on her hand and knees, trying to regain her wind. “They need a shaft to the eye. That damned black eye.” She grabbed Strykar’s arm. “They bounce off the fur. Ain’t right—it shimmers. I had it dead in the neck and it could have been a stone wall for all the hurt it did!” She leaned back and felt for her black scarf, hands shaking.
Strykar scowled and helped her, winding it around her head again. He clamped both his hands on her either side of her head. “Don’t do that again!”
The good side of her face managed a smile. “I’ve bagged boar the size of oxen but never a griffon. I wanted that.”
Strykar shook his head and growled. “It almost bagged you, huntress.”
And the barbican shook as the griffons crashed again against the gates below.
ACQUEL AND VOLPE had gained the parapets at the Ara, the great grey edifice of the Temple Majoris looming to their right. But it looked to them that the Templars had abandoned the wall to aid the defence of the main barbican. There was not a soul to be seen on the parapets or the green itself. The amulet was still throbbing intensely against his chest when the old monk finally caught him up, heaving for breath.
“The Temple,” said Acquel. And he dashed across the green, heading for the side porchway. Volpe reached it too and bent over, retching a little, before following Acquel in a limping gait, his wooden sword in his right hand. The sky had turned purple now as the last light of the evening sun faded, giving a sinister look to the ancient and twisted flat-topped parasol pines that grew near the west portico. Inside the temple all was dim but his eyes quickly began to adjust. A few braziers burned near the altar and half a dozen torches were also lit in their sconces on the massive stone columns holding up the great vaulted ceiling. His side-sword rasped as he drew it from the scabbard. There was no sound within. His heart thumping, he looked for Kodoris and the woman he knew was already there.
His sword in a low guard, he advanced from the archway into the first aisle even as he heard Volpe push the studded oak door to join him. By the time he heard the scrabbling sound it was too late to react. He felt himself flung across the aisle from the kick of the harpy. Dazed, he pushed himself up only to be slammed to the flagstones and then lifted off the floor. The harpy had dug its talons into his tabard, having failed to find flesh and instead only steel. Clinging to his sword, Acquel rose up and over the benches as the great flapping wings lifted him higher. But the tabard ripped apart and he fell crashing into the pews, luckily not from a great height. Again he scrambled to gain his feet, the cries of Ugo Volpe echoing in the cool vastness of the Temple.
His opponent rose up, hovering, its rapidly flapping wings generating a stinking gust as it looked again for him. But, as last time, it could not see him. It let loose a furious high-pitched howl of rage and made for Volpe instead. Behind him, at the main portico, he saw two figures half in shadow. One was the High Priest, the other smaller figure had to be Lucinda. Volpe cried out again and Acquel pushed his way along the pew to regain the aisle. In the light of a wall torch he saw the little monk holding off two harpies near the side entrance, his wooden sword slashing the air as the creatures darted in towards him.
Looking past Volpe’s fight, Acquel saw Kodoris and Lucinda standing a few paces apart as if in conversation. If he ran now for the sorceress, Volpe would die before he could get back, that was certain. He hefted his blade and ran towards the harpies. They turned at the sound of his clanking armour and in that instance, Volpe struck one in the flank. The creature screamed and Acquel could see wisps of smoke rising up from the wound as it staggered back. Then it turned, its companion joining it, and the two creatures hopped and loped down the aisle straight for him. Their large clouded eyes, like silvery moons, could not see him but the invisibility afforded by the amulet was now negated by the very thing that protected him from an enemy’s steel—the sound of his plate armour. The unwounded harpy leapt on its rippling feathered legs and took wing while the other came on, its grey hands flexing and unflexing, wings drawn back. Acquel didn’t wait to receive them but rather ran to one side, swinging a blow as he passed them and so joining Volpe.
“Ugo! With me!”
“We must save the High Priest,” shot back the monk. “Leave
me to hold these things. You must get to the canoness. Stop her.”
But now there was no time. The harpies were upon them again. In the poor light, Acquel could see one held a shining black obsidian dagger in one hand. Along its bare arm the raised jagged welt of a badly healed wound could be seen; the wound he had inflicted weeks gone by. The harpy’s head tilted as it listened for him, a long red serpent’s tongue flicking out from its mouth. It was an infernal travesty of woman with its long flowing locks and sagging breasts. Hag-like but immensely strong and filled with hate. And it remembered him.
A puddle of black blood was forming around the other harpy’s legs. Yet its pain only increased its rage and again it made a leap for Volpe, razor talons shooting straight out to rake the old monk. His sword beat the foot aside but the force sent him down on his backside. Acquel moved in front to cover him, his own sword slashing. The harpies jabbered and screamed abuse in a tongue that seemed to scorch his ears, the unknown words driving deep into his mind as if they themselves had the power to wound. The creatures fell back, hunched and gesturing with clawed hands. It was stalemate.
“We must get to Kodoris before she works her enchantment upon him. Can you move to the right? I will be at your side.”
Acquel threw a quick glance over his shoulder, and saw Kodoris and Lucinda nearly toe to toe, as if in intense conversation. “Let us try, brother!” he said as he moved his right foot out to the side and closed with the other. Volpe sidestepped too, closing the gap. The unwounded harpy saw the game though—it flanked Acquel and again thrust with its long black dagger, forcing him to parry with the sword he wielded in both hands.
LUCIUS KODORIS STARED into the eyes of Lucinda della Rovera. Despite every attempt to hold her off, she was in his mind now. Pushing deeper and deeper, opening doors that he had struggled hard to keep shut even from his own awareness. It was if he was in a dream where he could not move or speak. She was beautiful. More beautiful than any woman he had ever seen in his long life. Her blue eyes and full lips pulled him in and he wanted her, a dreamer lost in the world of his own mind. He felt her hand upon his cheeks, cradling his face and then her face moved closer. He wanted to fall inside of her. Her lips touched his own and for a moment there was immense pleasure. Then a dizzying rush struck him. Lucinda was no longer in front of him but instead, the vision of his fevered dream returned in its full horror.
The giant white wolf ridden by the naked raven-headed man was coming towards him, the rider stretching his open palm forward, reaching for him. Andras. A bright light emanated from behind, nearly blinding him. And then another vision as that one faded: a man’s face, long doleful and clean-shaven, black hair falling to the shoulders. He had never seen this man but somehow he knew him. The visage filled his entire field of vision. Another voice, not his own, came into his head—Berithas the Redeemer. The Trickster, the Deceiver! Berithas had joined with him. He could feel him inside, becoming part of him. His thoughts were Berithas’s and Berithas’s were his.
Kodoris became aware again of his surroundings, of Lucinda holding his hand as they walked. He was outside on the green, and a cool breeze swept over his face. In the sky he saw two great chariots borne by a black horse and one by a horse translucent. Beautiful naked youths drove them across the firmament from out of the blood red sliver of sun that remained upon the horizon. Belial and Beleth were coming. He knew this and was not fearful anymore. Kodoris was dissolving, growing fainter in his own skull. He was Berithas. He knew all that Berithas had been and had done.
Someone was yelling his name from far away. It distracted him even as Berithas spoke to him. He found himself rising up as if out of a dark well.
“Kodoris! Fight her!”
He knew the voice. Brother Acquelonius. He saw Lucinda next to him smiling as she led him across the grass. But Berithas was taking him as if he was being swallowed feet first. He fought. He wilfully recalled his sins, the murders laid at his doorstep, the innocent blood spilt for the One Faith. And suddenly, what was left of Lucius Kodoris understood what had to be done. As if bursting through the surface of a dark lake, he gasped and released Lucinda’s hand. He raised his own and struck her, hard. And then he staggered across the green towards the walls that overlooked the fields far below.
“Lucius, wait for me!” Lucinda’s voice filled his head but he did not stop. Already it was becoming harder to move his legs, Berithas was absorbing what was left of his self-awareness. He was on the walkway, mounting the stone ledge and then hauling himself up onto the wall itself. He turned to see the glory of the Temple Majoris, bathed in the orange light of sunset. He saw Brother Kell and the novices waving, the men he had slain. He smiled and then turned again, tottering on the wall, looking out onto the fields below, fires in the distance.
“Climb down,” said Lucinda, her hand outstretched. Inside his head, Berithas said the same and he began to bend his knees to comply. He was Berithas. And he began to forget his own name. Suddenly the Temple bells rang out. Once again he drifted upwards, fighting the invader. He lifted his head and spoke.
“I am Lucius Kodoris, High Priest of the One Faith.”
He raised his arms, the purple silk flapping in the wind. And then the High Priest launched himself over the wall, falling and falling until the final mystery was unveiled to him.
UGO VOLPE WAS losing strength, already winded. But his opponent was weakening too, its blood pooling and smearing across the flagstones. It screamed at him again and aimed a vicious kick at his chest. He dodged it and thrust out his sorbo sword. It went deep into the harpy’s naked belly, practically igniting it in a red flame. A little puff of stinking smoke poured forth and the creature collapsed with a pitiful, almost too human, moan. Seeing its companion slain, the other harpy drew back, screeched, and stretched its leathery wings. With a tremendous single flap it launched itself upwards into the air and flew to the beaten copper doors of the temple, now wide open.
The purple sky was streaked with red as Acquel entered the green, sword at the ready. He saw Lucinda near the parapet wall gesturing up to Kodoris who was balanced upon it. And with his mouth open in silent horror, he watched Kodoris jump. Behind him he heard Volpe let out a cry of despair. Lucinda turned and saw him and in the same instant the amulet sparked to life upon his chest. He strode towards her, hefting his blade. It was time to end her life. He was close enough to see her face, strangely animated, her eyes boring into his. A lance of pain filled his temples. The amulet warmed him and the pain faded. As in the crypt months before, he saw a look of astonishment come over the sorceress. Acquel brought up his arms into a high guard, ready to cleave her in two.
A grey flash blew past him, unbalancing him. He stumbled, caught himself, and saw the harpy catch Lucinda della Rovera in its arms, effortlessly lifting her up and out, over the wall in one swift pass. The sword fell from his grasp.
When he reached the wall and looked down he saw soldiers gathered about the spread-eagled form of the High Priest some sixty feet below. As he looked on, still dumbfounded, he saw them pick up the body and carry it off back to their lines. Acquel lowered his forehead against the cold stone. When he looked up again a figure stood where Kodoris had stood on the ledge. It was Timandra. Bright and glorious, her auburn red hair flowing behind her, she looked down at him and smiled. Then her arm extended, pointing straight ahead. Towards the enemy encampment and beyond: to the south. She looked at him, filling his heart with warmth, and she gave him a deep nod, affirming her counsel. Her voice filled his head, telling him that all was not lost. The final battle would come in the south. Maresto.
Twenty-Seven
DANAMIS SHOOK HIS shoulders to settle the leather and plate brigantine onto his frame and then jiggled a bit more as Citala stood watching him impassively. She reached out to begin fastening the buckles at the front and he did not protest. He looked into her face as he held his arms loosely at his sides.
“You sure you haven’t been squire to someone before?” he said as the Vendett
a gently rocked at the quayside.
She smiled. “Just because we don’t wear armour doesn’t mean we can’t figure out how it’s put on.”
They stood outside his stern cabin near the helm and the whipstaff, just out of the way of the crew further forward, those who were part of the landing party also donning harness and weapons. He took a deep breath—nervous—as Citala worked her way down, her long fingers dexterously doing up the buckles that went down to his hips. He would look a fool if the queen didn’t turn up where she was supposed to. Worse, he might be arrested as a traitor if the council had betrayed her and said he was abducting her rather than merely conducting her to Maresto. Once inside the palace with just two of his men, he’d never be able to fight his way out. And that would be that.
“She still has affection for you... your queen,” said Citala quietly, her eyes focussed on her task.
Danamis gave a small groan. “I do not believe that. But she is desirous of my aid when few others can oblige.”
“That is closer to the mark, my love. You should not confuse love or fancy for appreciation. You are a valuable retainer to her. A means to an end. If you think she has other ideas you will be disappointed.”
Danamis reached up and grasped both her hands. “Jealous? For something Cressida and I shared a very long time ago? Or is it the boy? She said I was not the father. And that is that.”
“It is true I would not wish to lose you to her. But to lose you to her for the wrong reasons—perhaps a lie—that I could not bear.”
“You know I am sworn to her royal house. I hold warrant at the court. I have a duty to fulfil.”
She gently untangled their hands and resumed doing up the last two buckles. “Duty. You swore an oath to my people—to me—to help the mer. What of that promise?”
The Witch of Torinia Page 32
